Congratulations on Having That Sixth Digit Removed From Your Left Hand!

Bitches always be staring and men always be asking for hand jobs and lately it’s all gotten a little bit much for a prospective senator from upstate New York to be managing, so today you’re going to go ahead and do what you’ve always wanted to get done: you’re going to get a doctor to take some acid and fry the living shit out of your left hand until that extra finger you’ve always had is nothing more than a giant, unsightly scar sitting at the edge of your hand.

You’ll roll up to the office with your aides flanking you, West Wing style – you always have to look good for the cameras – and then remove your illustrious, custom made gloves, exposing your exquisitely formed extra digit.

“Oh my,” the doctor will say, shaking his head at the raw perfection that is your freakishness.

You won’t pay him any mind, though. You’ll hop up on his exam table, kick off your shoes and wink at him.

“Let’s do this,” you’ll say, putting on your shades so he won’t see you cry.

He will hear you cry, however. They’ll be muffled and drawn out, but the sobs, oh god the sobs, will rack your chest as you lay there, feeling that doctor sear off your unique little digit through a protracted, corrosive campaign. It’ll take him nearly four hours from start to finish, and he’ll have to anesthetize the region six times. You won’t want to think about what the whole affair would feel like without anesthesia – the thought alone would make you break composure, and then you’d have to have the doctor killed for seeing you totally lose it, which isn’t great for you financially right now.

When all’s said and done you’ll remove your sunglasses, wipe the streaks of eye shadow from your eyes and hop off the table to examine your hand. Where once a perfect sixth finger lay there will be nothing more than a long black splotch of skin.

“That’ll turn into really weird grainy skin after a few days,” the doctor will tell you around the cigarette that he’ll have immediately popped into his mouth after finishing your operation. “But you can wear normal gloves right away.”

He won’t tell you about infection or heavy lifting – he knows you won’t have time to change your life to deal with that kind of bullshit. Instead he’ll write you a prescription for Percocet and slap you on the ass on your way out the door.

“Look out world!” he’ll shout after you.

Outside of his office you’ll examine your hand, hideously deformed to your eye now, and smile. Now you’ll be able to campaign without waiting for something called “Sixth Digit-Gate” to come up. Next stop: a seat in the state senate. Several stops later: The White House!

Congratulations on Having That Sixth Digit Removed From Your Left Hand!