Why This Broken Finger Sucks/Doesn’t Suck
Why This Broken Finger Sucks
Autoerotic acts now 50% more difficult.
While appropriately hand-signaling a left-hand turn, a biker thought I was flipping him the bird, and subsequently broke the other four fingers.
My mittens don’t fit. I really like my mittens.
This nostril ain’t gonna pick itself.
The hand-traced turkey I drew looks like it’s got gout.
Itsy-Bitsy Spider? Totally ruined. Patty Cake? Ruined. Cat’s Cradle? Ruined. Slap That Ass, Bitch? Ruined as well.
I can no longer finger my balls. What? That’s how you bowl: you stick your fingers in holes in a big, heavy ball. What did you think I meant, you sick pervert?
People just don’t want to talk to the hand, girlfriend.
Can no longer use elegant “Rabbit Ears” method of tying shoes. Must resort to less graceful “Around the tree and through the hole” method.
Can no longer play backup guitar on “Born to Run” as special guest E Street Band member.
Career as crossing guard irreparably harmed.
Typing this piece took three days.
It really hurts.
Why This Broken Finger Doesn’t Suck
Gouging out the eyes of my enemies now 50% easier.
Convenient place to store all of these doughnuts.
Automatically have appropriate response ready when someone ask, “Is your finger broken?”
My splint’s not the only thing that’s long and hard, baby.
Doctor’s note excuses me from 7th-period gym class with Mr. Bevalaqua, who always looks at me funny anyway, and sometimes compliments my gym shorts. Frankly, I’m scared of Mr. Bevalaqua.
Wrap my splint in tape, sticky side out, and I’ve got a quick and effective way to remove all this lint from my trousers.
Good excuse for not returning Donny Osmond’s phone calls.
Gentle throbbing provides a nice soundtrack for my day.
My finger now comes in a soothing spectrum of blues and purples, and, luckily, I’m a “winter.”
Take two of these painkillers and suddenly my mother’s “The Time I Had Drinks with Harry Hamlin in a Hotel Bar” story is so much more entertaining.