Always go with Times New Roman.

I walked into a local nail salon today. Within seconds of sitting down, I realized that the entire clientele appeared to be make up of aging prostitutes. Bawdy laughs, leathery faces, smokers' coughs. Leopard print heels.

Overheard: "I could literally sit on this thing all day and not learn."

I wish I could stop there, but it was at this point that I was introduced to Mr. Pumice. About six inches long... purple...

Ostensibly Mr. Pumice is scrubby thing used to exfoliate and clean feet. But with his bright color and showily wholesome Courier font, he reminded me off a televangelist whose gleaming white teeth and monochromatic hair pouffe bely his predilection for frequenting brothels.

Admittedly, I was sitting in a violently vibrating chair this entire time, which may have influenced my mindset.

As Mr. Pumice glided around my feet and the wash basin, I couldn't help but think that Mr. Pumice was a preacher with a dirty foot fetish.

And I was worried that when my pedicurist looked away, he might just make his way up my leg.

I should add that by the end of the experience, my toes were red, green, white, and gold. It's Christmas somewhere. Probably on the Strip. Where Mr. Pumice likes his girls loud and proud.