A Letter from My Right and Left Hand

Snob,

Right hand here. For some time now, Lefty and I have been... well... wondering about something and haven't been quite sure of how to broach the subject. We feel we need to ask, "What the fuck is your problem?"

It's ten degrees out, before the windchill, genius. We know you're aware of this little fact because you check the weather each morning. Lefty holds the coffee mug and I work the mouse. The browser comes up, I scroll down... and there's the forecast. We could do it in your sleep.

Liner, Lobsterclaw, Clawcover. It all sounds good, but it needs to actually work. You know the phrase, "I feel your pain?" Well, we know you do because we're your fucking hands. You're shoulders like the arm swinging, but by the time that gets to us it's like climbing into tepid bath water. Really... who cares?

And since when did we get religated to a status below your feet? Lake boots my ass. When your big toe becomes opposable, then let's talk.

While Lefty's a little overly emotional right now, let me come at this with a bit more logic. Please, figure it out. Problem solving and critical thinking can go a long way. You've got resources. In fact, when your friends passed by you today, many of them raised a hand. Perhaps, they were saying, "Dude, Upgrade." You should be able to answer the phone when your friend calls you near the end of the ride. We can all be happy. Really.

But here's the thing, and there's really no getting around this, at the end of the ride, when your bladder was full and you were spending more energy warming your own piss than us, that hurt man, that fucking hurt.

Help us out, Snob. Help us out.