My fingers get stuck in the scissors

Blogger, Twitter, Facebook, standing in line at ABC Fine Liquors while juggling a multitude of colorful bottles because once again I angrily smirked at the baskets at the door. The almost daily question is now becoming as mundane as hanging out with Anthony Bourdain...wait a minute that wouldn't suck.
Why do they call you Sausage Fingers?

There it is the question of questions that haunts me back to the birth of this little project, which at the time was to quiet the voices in the noggin and to somehow get them on paper just in case the men with the straight jacket came to take me away or the Greeks finally realised that my last delivery way back then was a wee bit short and I was driving a new mustang! Do Greek gangsters offer statutes of limitations? I do hope so.

Anyway back to the point - Why do I call myself Sausage Fingers?


Am I a chef specializing in the artistry of the porcine?
Was I injured in some type of radioactive experiment and now have Sausage Fingers with the ability to shoot links at masked robbers running down the street with an old lady's handbag?
Maybe once as a bet I cut holes into the ends of large sausages and placed them on my fingers then paraded around the house before grilling them? (maybe)
NO.

I am just a big lad with big hands. In fact my hands are so big that the knife that cut me last week apologized in fear of retribution and violent retaliation.

It was my father that gave me the name while at the butchers and looking upon some rather plumpy links "Look ma these sausages look like our wee lad from Dundee."

There it is they call me Sausage Fingers because my fingers look like sausages. Big meaty appendages.

You know what the ladies say about men with large hands right?

 

Well nowadays it's "Can you please open this jar of pickles, crack these pecans then take out the trash." But there was a time when I could have been a hand replacement for a Mr. Ron Jeremy if such a replacement was needed.

There are many downsides to the whole big hands thing, typing is one. Try to picture me texting, it isn't easy and often I am accused of sending rude and disgusting messages like - "I'll pee on you by hate." which in my fingery world means that I will be home by eight. I also break a lot of stuff, I tried taking up the hobby of building model airplanes but ended up smashing most of the pieces because piece B3 was so small that the meaty appendages king konged them into the next room.

I once met the great blues performer known as the Sauce Boss aka Bill Wharton. While backstage at a benefit I was able to have a picture taken with him. Boss stands about 6' and has what would be called normal functional size hands, he is an incredible musician and a tireless advocate for feeding the needy, it was an honor to meet him. I did not look at the photo until the next day but looking at his wee(Normal size) hands compared to my large(Freakish) hands should finally answer the question. "Why do they call you Sausage Fingers"
You decide.
Cheers...

Guess which one I am