The Real Topic At Hand.

We owe it to the last participants to give them our nod of approval. Someone or something, is escaping as part of a test. The test will determine the suitability of certain materials to withstand crisis situations. A person I befriended during the last war is slated for a position as Unknown Witness in a club re-do of the fifth cycle which completes this year's test program. The problem which arises again and again concerns the colors worn by elite members to signal completion. For some reason, members with multi-syllabic surnames experience a noted shortness of breath while wearing robes in the red-orange-yellow part of the spectrum. Our mascot, a possum named Jerpy, usually hides under the platform when this happens. He's very sensitive, you see. And this creates, let us say, a 'situation', since his participation is crucial for a proper performance of the Command Ritual. Otherwise an infinitesimal speck of graphite is sometimes mobilized at the behest of our opponents, and, in rare cases the entire building can catch fire. When this occurred three years ago our collection of rare linens, which were supposedly secured in a fire-proof cabinet suffered irreparable damage and our entire yearly cycle came to naught.

I only mention all this as a prelude the  real topic at hand, which, weirdly enough, concerns my own left hand. You see, even though I am, like most people, right handed, I've always experienced what some might call an obsession with my left hand. All of which is okay except for the fact that nowadays no matter where I go there seem to be photographic, video and any other type of concievable depictions of my left hand appearing willy-nilly day or night, rain or shine, you get the idea. 

You might be wondering how I know it's my left hand. Well, that's easy. I have a tattoo on the ring finger between the nail and the knuckle of a three-headed ant named Jeremy Parker (from a cartoon series from the UK in the '60s). And so, everywhere I look, be it the underside of a snow shovel to a half-eaten sandwich in the trash receptacle outside the Metropolitan Opera to the overpass of the Van Wyck Expressway over the Grand Central Parkway, what do you think I see? That's right, some kind of depiction of my left hand, complete with identifying tattoo. Could be a photo or even a crude crayon drawing, even a tracing in the dust on a dirty car windshield. And frankly this has me pretty upset. Why? Because this is my special hand and I don't fancy any Tom Dick or Harry or Jane Sue or Martha just getting their private jollies looking at pictures of my hand without even asking my permission! Please God LET IT STOP!! 

Sorry friend, this AIN'T NOT
my left hand. Try again!

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