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I wrote this short parody of "My Left Foot" shortly after seeing the
movie.  It is probably funny only to those who have seen the movie or
read the book, and maybe not even to them, but I'll submit it anyway:
 
 ------------------------------------
 
My Right Hand
 
 
My mother describes my birth to me this way:
 
The doctor and nurses were attending me during a long and difficult
labor while your father was in the pub next door.  I can still see
the expression on the nurses' faces when your head appeared.  They
smiled wide--it almost looked like they were grimacing.  The doctor
said "I'll go warn--er--tell Mr. Brown".
 
"What's that awful thing on his face?" your father asked when he saw
you for the first time.
 
"His nose," said the doctor.
 
My deformities grew with me, and by the time I started school, I was
laughed at by the children and teachers.  My mother tried to get me
admitted to a school for crippled children but the director said he
could only make room for children who were really deformed, not, in
his words, "just very ugly."
 
At least my brothers and sisters treated me kindly.  They made me a
wagon much like a wheelbarrow, and carried me around to meet the
other children in the neighborhood, who would give us money.  I never
asked why.
 
As I grew older, I saw young women come often to visit my brothers,
and they would go into the rooms next to mine and make strange noises
and laugh a lot.  I asked my brothers what they were doing, but they
just smiled and gave me magazines and told me not to tell mother.
 
Then came the day that would change my life.  While reading one of
the magazines my brothers had given me, I chanced to look upon my
right hand, and really saw it for the first time.  It was a
beautiful, magical thing.
 
In the years to come I developed more and more dexterity in that
hand, and I didn't mind so much that the young women who visited my
brothers never came to see me.
 
I stayed at home for most of my life, and nothing much ever happend to
me after that day except my father's death.  I remember him lying on
his deathbed with my mother at his side, and asking her one last
question.
 
"We have seventeen lovely children and one deformed little pervert.
Tell me honestly, is Christy really my son?"
 
"Yes, Christy is your son," my mother said, and with that, my father
died.  "Thank God he didn't ask about the other seventeen."
 

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