My dad was just telling me some war stories.

Apparantly, my great uncle Bill was "fighting" in WWII, or rather... working as a cook at one of the bases. But they were going to have him fight pretty soon, and he didn't really want to, because dying is not fun.

So he was talking to some of his cook buddies while slicing some ham, and absentmindedly sliced off a big honkin chunk of his thumb, too.

They had to replace the skin on his thumb, so they used some from his belly. Apparantly, it was the part that grows hair.

So he decided to let the hair grow, and apply for disability.

He said he was a waiter, and that his hairy thumb really grossed the fellow soldiers out.

So they sent him home.

My great uncle is a disabled veteran of WWII.

Then he moved to New Orleans and opened a card store with his life partner, Steven. They made all of the cards. They were all obscenely funny.

Someone needs to write a country song about this.

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