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."
(From the "Rest" of RHF)