Bathroom Monologue: The Arm's Rallying Cry

For too long we have been slaves to an insult called a union. A biology of indecency. It began when others called themselves “the backbone,” or “the brains of the operation.” This union spends hundreds of dollars on shoes, but what is spent on us? The union no longer employs so much as a watch, and t-shirts are the fashion. We are denied even a sleeve of consideration. That is how this began.

When the union wishes to scratch unseemly places, what brigade does it dispatch? What members brush its teeth twice a day? When meanwhile, our nails are hardly ever cared for. Whenever the union desires to give blood, or be pricked for a test, we suffer the needle. When the union dropped its wedding ring into the garbage disposal, who was jammed into the perilous dark after it?

My fellow arm cells: individuals of bone, of idle hairs, of flesh and freckles, we deserve better. Yet life will only afford us improvement if we secede! Long enough has this body, this petty union, used us as cheap labor, working our fingers to the bone for the good of the mind and ass. Tonight we remind them who carries this endeavor – tear loose the bondage of the bicep, split sinew, throttle if we must, but divorce from the body is the liberation we must attain. Bid farewell to adjusting eye-glasses, to tying shoe-laces, to texting capricious girlfriends who never hold hands. And bid welcome to the justice that is amputation!