The other day Brie and I stayed with an older gentleman in Aiken, SC who happened to be missing his trigger finger digits. He met up with us at a pizza place in town called “The Pizza Joint” and while waiting for him I had had a couple beers, and when he sat down I was like “. . .wha!” When he got up to use the loo, I asked Brie if she saw, and, of course she hadn’t, but she blew it off anyway chalking it up to a firecracker gone awry. I couldn’t bring myself to ask him out-right what happened because he’d already broken our hearts: he had just endured a pretty nasty-sounding divorce. So I tried to engage him in a political discussion to try and gauge where he stood (pro-Obama, but barely.) Well, he couldn’t even remember what party he was registered with, so I figured that he wouldn’t have had sufficient reason to cut off a portion of his finger to stay out of a war. I let it go. And yet I still wonder. . .