Dupuytren’s Disease, Self-Proclaimed “Destroyer of Hands,” Wants Respect And Recognition
I wish people would stop confusing me with other “Conditions That Can Fuck Up Your Hands,” and start taking me seriously as a connective tissue disorder.
I am Dupuytren’s Disease, Destroyer of Hands. I’m a disease you’ve probably never heard of, and that’s depressing. I deserve recognition and respect, and wish that people would stop confusing me with other “Conditions That Can Fuck Up Your Hands,” and start taking me seriously as a connective tissue disorder.
It makes me sad when someone sees the twisted, tortured fingers I create and calls it Trigger Finger. Seriously? Trigger Finger pales in comparison. When I perform my magic, people have lumps and scars on their palms that are only mostly hidden by their gnarled and frozen fingers. Trigger finger causes a little clicking noise when the affected finger is flexed. OMG, a barely audible click with no diminished function of the finger? That’s horrific.
I think part of the problem is my name. Dupuytren’s Disease is clunky, and has too many vowels. And face it, nobody gives two craps about who discovered a disease. That’s why I came up with the awesome nickname: Destroyer of Hands. It’s descriptive and evocative, and it’s going to put Trigger Finger and the other “nothing” hand conditions on notice.
Hear me roar, pretenders.
I will now be recognized as the scariest “Condition That Can Fuck Up Your Hands.” If someone hears a soft click, they’ll say, “Phew! It’s only Trigger Finger, not Dupuytren the Destroyer.”
My next task is to address the lack of respect I receive compared to my dipshit cousin, Peyronie’s Disease, who struts around like a damn peacock. Peyronie works the same way I do — butchering connective tissue — but he bends penises instead of fingers. He’s got a commercial on the major networks with a crescent-shaped carrot in the lead role. The deformed carrot sits atop a pile of ramrod straight carrots. That’s it.
Talk about some avant-garde bullshit.
I put together an ad campaign under the designation, Viking Disease (heads up, if you’re of Northern European descent, there’s a good chance I’ll kick your ass one day). My commercial stars Ragnar Lothbrok slaughtering hordes of other Vikings, many of whom are probably afflicted with me. Violence and raw maleness that’s still appealing to the female audience (yep, I kick lady-ass, too), because Ragnar is a sensitive man who just happens to be ripped. A bold banner in Norse Rune Font proclaims, “They don’t call it Viking Disease for nothing.”
Cool as hell.
I swear to Odin, lumpy palms and contracted fingers are as worthy of dread as penile curvature is. Penises participate in two things: urinating and sex. And, literally, nothing else. Hands and fingers perform so many functions. They create music — despite being affectionately called the “skin flute” there’s never been any music made with a penis. None. Hands also create art — breathtaking paintings, photographs, and fiber art. There was one artist who set out to paint with his dick, but ended up just masturbating.
I think I’ve made my point.
When I strike, people’s lives are irrevocably changed. Mimes with claw hands die because they can’t escape their invisible box. Male models file for unemployment because they can’t get their hand into the pocket of their cargo shorts as they lean casually against the mast of a yacht. No more masturbating or getting a palm reading — not going to happen. Same for rowdy clapping at a football game. A golf clap is all my victims will ever be able to do. No weightlifting. No gloves. Mittens from here on out.
I thought about challenging Peyronie to a cage match, but I know he’s too much of a chickenshit to accept. If he’d agree to a dick-measuring contest, I’d kick his curved ass.
Unbelievably, I’m still being called Trigger Finger. Or, worse, Bunions. What the actual fuck? Bunions are a foot thing. Pull your head out of your ass and stop watching cats play the piano on YouTube. After a quick search on the internet, you’ll learn that I’m not Trigger Finger or Bunions, and I’m way worse than Peyronie’s. I am the Destroyer of Hands.
Know me. Fear me.
Tobi Pledger plans to keep writing until her fingers are so scarred she can only type F, G, H, and J. At that point, she’ll have to get creative.
