Ibiteyoureyes spends a lot of time wasting time on craigslist. Occasionally, he applies to freelance jobs on craigslist. Occasionally he hears back from the poster of the gig. And then does a jig. And puts on a wig. My (rooster) is big.

The point is: I don’t ever get any jobs on craigslist because I am not a pretty girl with pretty feet.

These mama-jamas must clean up. Not a day goes by without my seeing an advertisement on craigslist for pretty girls with pretty feet. Not a day, Michael Bay.

Which gets me wondering. And when I wonder, I imagine, and when I imagine, things like this happen…

Why Pretty Girls With Pretty Feet Are Such A Hot Commodity in New York City

  1. High percentage of Californian transplants in the population. When I came to New York for college six years ago, I met about seven Californians for every…say…Rhode Islander. And Californians like pretty people, and they like to wear sandals. Probably, the majority of those craigslist advertisers are homesick Californians.
  2. All that walking, atop all those dirty streets and subway platforms, make for some beat-up, dirty feetsies. The few pretty girls who are either rich enough to take taxis, or lucky enough to have resilient feet, are so rare that they have taken on a value akin to gold, or similar treasures. And so, the craigslisters must be pawn shop suppliers, or mining aficionados.
  3. The craigslisters have a surplus of socks, sneakers, mirrors, and make-up. Just respectable businessmen trying to make a living. They lure young, pretty woman (with feet) to their apartments, and pay them for the privilege of their business. A unique customer service model.
  4. The first rule of Foot Club is that you do not talk about Foot Club. I’ve already said too much about this reason.
  5. Recruiting wives for the lonely gentlemen members of the NSRA.
  6. People are really getting sick of the demands of ugly girls with ugly feet. With good reason. Now they’re writing books.

To read the next installment of Craigslist All-Stars, click here.

EDITOR’S NOTE: The following text was sent to me by L.P. Mandrake. Although I will say a few words of my own, I have decided to give him credit for the entire post as he is a) one of the finest humourists of our time and I hope to carpetbag on his success; b) trapped in a pre-modern economy and well in need of the bushel of wheat that all YS contributers receive for their efforts; and c) I hope the outpouring of support this column no doubt engenders will convince Mr. Mandrake to return to the fold sooner (re:now) rather than later (upon the ascension of George P. Bush to the presidency).

With the first of these letters, Mandrake has shown himself to be a first class epistolarian (A letter-writer; although it is unclear whether or not the adjectival meaning “Addicted to or occupied in letter-writing” applies), or epistoler, or epsitler, or epistolist (rare); all are recognized forms. Actually, “epistle” is probably one of the more productive roots in the English language (surely a gross exaggeration), as almost everything has been added to it. One can epistolize, although one would hope that the subject of the letter would be epistolizable. But sadly, one can no longer “epistle-v” which, as expected, meanst “To write (something) in a letter.” It’s earliest meaning, however is “To write as a preface or introduction,” now obsolete. This is derived from the also obsolete noun sense of “A preface or letter of dedication addressed to a patron, or to the reader, at the beginning of a literary work.” So even though I have epistled, it is sadly no longer correct in saying so (though it surely sounds uncouth).


The Iowa sunrise spreads itself across the land; cornfields as far as the eye can see. I am driving along a vacant country highway when what should come on my stereo, but Reagan’s new patriotism anthem: Born in the USA. As the song hits its stride, I see across the road a pathetic figure. A man, his jeans and sweatshirt sun-bleached to the same color, sticks his thumb out. Is this man a veteran? Is he the out of place soldier that Springsteen sings of? I pass him by, as so many have before, but mostly because he was heading the opposite direction of me. A large truck zooms past, blocking the man from sight with it’s piles of corn husks, no doubt on their way to be processed into that colorless gold: ethanol. I turn my gaze back onto the open road and I notice a gigantic American flag proudly rippling in the middle of an empty cornfield. At the base of the pole is a crudely painted handmade sign. This one–shockingly–had everything spelled correctly, but still exuded the rage of the common man nonetheless. The words slathered on that sign? “There’s a special place in hell for DEADBEAT MOMS.”

And that’s when I know that I am in America after all.

As a bonus: http://marcambinder.theatlantic.com/archives/2007/09/joe_bidens_iowa_strategy.php