5.0 out of 5 stars Sweet baby Jesus, this thing is like a rabid shark for your disgusting, horned man feet.

By Reno Dad on September 9, 2013

I am 40. I am male. I trim my toenails when they punch through my socks or my wife complains that I’m shredding the sheets. I have never removed a callus. I didn’t even know what calluses were until mine got to the point that I could hardly walk from the pain of having quarter inch stalagmites of dead skin driving into my feet. I lost a bet with my wife and had to go get a pedicure, which was a total waste of 50 bucks getting a slimy foot rub from a high school dropout that looked like she was going to barf. So after that little gem of an experience I shopped around a bit and bought this bad boy, as per the Tribe of Amazon’s reviews. In Amazon we trust.

First of all let’s get the griping over with: this should be jet black with a skull-and-crossbones, not chocolate brown. Power tools should all be black. A death motif is always a plus. This sucker should come with hardware for mounting it in your garage, or better yet a black holster you can strap to your leg. Because it’s far more dangerous than any pistol. Han Solo could outshoot Greedo with this thing.

Like all men, I tossed the instructions in the trash, whipped off my socks, and started filing away. The first thing I noticed was that a) it didn’t hurt, and b) I was grinding off an unbelievable amount of dead skin. Because it didn’t hurt I decided it was defective and started furiously sawing back and forth. Grind, grind, grind, and now skin was flying like dust from a bandsaw. That was more like it. After about 30 minutes on each foot I had the kind of beautiful, pink baby feet that fetishists dream about. Chucked the meat dust into the garbage, took a shower, and thought nothing of it as I went to bed.

I’m pretty sure the next morning I awoke to the shrill from the smoke alarm going off. Did you know your feet can spontaneously combust? My beautiful pink piggies looked like denuded Vienna sausages. My heels were blood red and inflamed. I could hardly make it to the first aid kit. I wound up slathering about a gallon of Vaseline on each, wishing I had BP around to dump an oil spill on me. Through sheer manly perseverance (read: screaming profanity and crying like a wee girl) I was able to get socks and shoes on, despite my wife’s humiliating laughter. I spent two crippling days hobbled to my desk at work and trying to walk as little as possible. Mornings and evenings meant more Vaseline and trips to the grocery store for econo vats of the stuff. By the way, standing in the express checkout with a pained expression while buying huge containers of Vaseline and a baguette your wife asked you to pick up is a great way to strike up a conversation with folks. Made some good friends, yes sir.

TL;DR: this thing works. It’s like a chainsaw for your feet. Just shave a little off at a time, and do it over the course of a few nights and not one sitting.