He'd hooked his rifles up to the Christmas

He'd hooked his rifles up to the Christmas tree. It really was a work of art. His 100 rifles, handguns zip guns, we're glistening there on 'ol tannenbaum just waiting for

Santa and his reindeer. If all went according to plan he would have eight sets of antlers above his mantelpiece to impress the guys at the shootin' club before the night was over.

and as he fantasized about guzzling a gigantic stein of beer, he noticed some movement out of the corner of his eye. His sharpened hatchet gleamed under the moonlight as he

edged along, back to wall, staring at the spot where he had seen movement. The darkness didn't move, but he couldn't take the risk

that, in the shadows, were the Shadows. In the muzzle flash of his gun, he saw something leap into the air. There was a thumb behind him and then a sharp, burning pain. He

had mistakenly held his thumb up when he fire the pistol. The slide had cut his thumb off clean as a knife. Now his thumb was behind him giving him the proverbial finger of fate.

With a little bit of Gorilla Glue and duct tape, he was able to reattach the thumb. It stuck up in a 90 degree position. His hit man days were over but his hitchhiking days had

come to a screeching halt as well. A 90 degree thumb? That's disgusting. After all, that is why his wife of 30 years left him for Brad. Brad had a proper thumb. And a job.

And for sure that was true. She divorced him then, not asking anything from him exceped the lovely slip-n-slides in order to spend the rest of her life with.