Ever since a doctor sewed the tip of my thumb back on way back when I was young and foolish, I cringe whenever I hear the phrase: “You’re going to feel a slight prick. . .”
That’s what the doctor told me as he guided a novacain-empowered syringe the size of a soda straw slowly into the soft pink pad of my left thumb and proceeded to explore the surrounding areas up to and including my elbow. It was at that moment I realized torture was not for me, that I would yield all information to a captor without a moment of hesitation: “OOOooooo – stop, stop, stopstopstopstopstop! My birthdate is… the last 4 digits of my social security is… the magic code on the back of my credit card is… my mother’s maiden name is… just stop, stop, stopstopstopstopstopit!“
Which is why, to this day, when I watch action movies where the hero is being burned, fried, electrocuted, dissected or disfigured, I say in a faint whisper that only I can hear, “You’re going to feel a slight prick.” And my thumb immediately begins to twitch.