The Irish Duck Foot Versus The Magic Kingdom. Discrimination?

“I read the news today, oh boy.”

Yup, geek news will get you every time.

Like the note I found in my mailbox this morning

about the fact that Disneyworld, aka the Magic Kingdom

has patented a recognition system

FOR FEET!

After which,

ie having pattern-recognized

your tiny little size 46

sneakered tootsies,

you will receive a  visit

from your own personal

robot greeter.

Who will note all your wishes.

And follow you around to make your stay better.

AAAAAArrrrrggggg.

It’s not enough I have to talk to ducks, chickens, a giant dog named Pluto,

not to mention the ballet-dancing hippos,

and the,

in my opinion,

over-eager greeters in the hotel,

(although they could do a bit more with the barbershop quartet.

Like a group in Tomorrowland singing modernistic music,

or in Fantasyland with the themes from the great kids’ Disney movies.

“Doo-bie-doo

I want to be like you.”

And maybe with one voice left out,

like in karaoke

so the lucky twenty-first person across the doorsill

gets to sit in.

Now that would be entertainment.)

But not foot recognition, thank you very much.

And from a robot, no less.

I mean, really…

has anyone reading this actually

ever

seen a robot

with a pretty foot?

Or an interesting one?

Or one I would like to look at?

(please, don’t answer)

Not to mention the fact that the things scare me.

Like the other day when a strange robot thing tried to pick up my dishes

at a certain birdishly fixated fast food restaurant.

And scared me,

and an old lady’s cock-a-poodle

to heck and back.

Arf.

Or are the ones in the fast food places just part of the government’s plan

to make us eat healthier?

And then, of course, there is the problem with the feet.

Oh my Yes.

The feet.

As someone who was discriminated in highschool

for being uhm

athletically challenged-

(I still think archery ought to be the national sport)

I now am starting to feel like I am back in high school

what with this foot recognition thing and all.

And yes,

if you really want to know why,

it has to do with the Irish duck foot.

Genetically bred,

since the time of Brian Boru,

through continual dousings

with the “Irish fog”

necessary to maintain the forty shades of green

written up in every Irish tourist pamphlet,

and long beloved by tourists

as a favorite remembrance of the gentle isle,

and the gentle rain,

the Irish duck foot-

short toes and wide at the front

and pointed at the back,

perfect for walking on wet bogs-

has long been a problem for the European Union.

What with its inability to fit into elegant Italian slippers

set at high prices for a better trade exchange,

or Dutch wooden clogs,

not that I particularly miss clonking around on marble floors

or being my own band when trying to ride an escalator.

Or trying to fit above-mentioned Daisy duck feet-

bet you didn’t notice Daisy and Donald were Irish, did you?-

into:

those felt slidy house-shoe things they give you at museums,

the rubber thingies you are supposed to wear at pools, saunas, and spas,

bowling shoes…

The thing is,

in the general scheme of footwear,

one size does not fit all.

ie

if you get a pair of “just slide these on please”

that fit at the toes,

you will slide out the back.

No heel bones, remember.

Or, to make it simple:

and collect my brownie points for educator of the year,

Just take five cocktail weenies,

hold them together at one point,

and let them splay out at the front.

That’s what the picture looks like on my birth certificate.

(When I was born, they inked the baby’s foot right after birth,

so the parents don’t take the wrong child home.

I’ve been traumatized ever since.)

And now, a robot,

who has never been through the trauma of the Irish duck foot,

wants to make a digital imprint of my foot,

for the purpose of being my soul-ly challenged “friend”

Not that I don’t have a heart for robots, of course.

But maybe they could be better utilized doing the dishes in one of the cafes,

or cleaning up the  droppings

from the dogs,

and parade horses, etc

they scared trying to take pictures of their paws.

Or hooves.

Trying to find a friend.

Maybe what we really need a lonely robot’s club.

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