Splinter

This morning with the aid of a needle and tweezers I dug out a painful splinter from the accusatory finger of my left hand. The splinter was shaped like a cartoon p*nis and t*sticles, the kind you find scrawled on the inside of a men's room stall with a ballpoint pen. The ancient Greeks would try to find deeeper meaning in this as would many psycho-analysts. But I prefer to treat this vision along the lines of Freud's line "Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar."