The bitch is back.

I entered this cruise vacation that I just returned from full-well knowing that there was a good chance I’d see some visually assaulting images along the way. But I was not prepared for the parade of human curiosities that I encountered while on the high seas.

I repeatedly saw a woman I came to call Cancer Stick. I would watch every day as CS slathered Hawaiian Tropic all over her crusty crop of melanomas, which sucked up the tanning nectar like dehydrated spores.

I saw 50 year-old European Speedo man. “Excuse me, sir. But god did not invent lycra so that I could count the number of wrinkles on your decrepit ball sack.”

I also saw Natural Woman. She had this curly, out-of-control mane that cascaded past her behind. She walked barefoot and swathed herself in a mystical-looking shawl. I got the feeling that every night, her and Natural Man (who also had long hair) went back to their cabin for wild, dirty, patchouli-fueled sex. “YEWWWWW make me feel like a nah…chur…uhl… wuhMAN!” Ewww.

But all these specimens pale in comparison with Lobster Woman. Lobster Woman’s feet were so hideously deformed and mangled, that it left her with no choice but to paint her knarly, cantankerous nails hooker red and wear sandals the entire trip. Oh, the humanity.

I tried to get a picture for you all, but untitledhusband felt strongly that the photographical gods would not look kindly upon him using his gear for such dubious purposes. “If Kodak can build the theater where American Idol is filmed, surely he could rain down his fury upon me, and at the very least, make me lose a lens cap.” This made sense to me, so I proceeded to take a picture with my… mind (insert dramatic “Dr. Who”ian chord).

First off, the feet themselves were bloated, blue and swollen. I created this whole story line for her, like maybe she contracted a nasty case of trench foot while serving as a jungle interpreter in Nam. The big toes on each foot were aggressively pointing inwards, as if each one was blaming the other for the sad state of affairs they found themselves in. “You did this to us!” “No, YOU did! This little piggy wanted to go to market, but NOOOOOOOO. YOU wanted to hang around to smell the roses. Thanks a lot, Dr. Scholls. Now pass the pumice and the corn pads, muthafucka.”

Between the big toes and the second toes was a wide v-shaped gap, which gave her feet the unsightly appearance of, you guessed it, lobster claws. The rest of the toes lay in a mangled pile in the nether regions of her sandals, each one twisted over the next, as if they were fighting to escape whatever made the toe next to it so damn ugly.

Now, I understand if this woman was physically unable to squeeze her breadboxes into normal shoes. After giving birth to untitledson, I couldn’t even wear slippers. Things like this happen. But why in hell couldn’t she cover up those bad boys with some socks? It’s downright disrespectful to unfurl such hideousness on a captive audience whilst at sea.