I was mightily amused to read this morning that the young damsel in distress who claimed to have found a finger in her bowl of Wendy's chili has been arrested. Aside from the shameful schadenfreude that inevitably accompanies reading of the misfortunes of others, I was struck by the peculiarities of the episode and its similarity to the tale of Medea and the daughters of Pelias. At any rate, it would seem that the young finder of said finger has quite a checkered, litigious past, and investigators are examining the possibility that she planted the finger in the chili of her own accord. Zounds! I'm chortling in my leather chair just thinking of such diabolical cleverness. At least, this is the reigning theory, which was arrived at after an extensive inquiry into the digitude of the Wendy's employees. The inquiry went something like this:

Q. Hello, there. Is this thing on? Hello, employees of the Wendy's corporation. Is anyone in any of our franchises perhaps missing a finger?

A. Well, yes, in fact. Several of us are missing fingers.

Q. Let me be more specific. Has anyone lost a finger in a setting other than high school shop class?

A. Well, no. Once we graduated or got our GEDs, we tended to keep better track of our digits.

Q. I guess that about does it then. We'll let you know what we find out.

I have it on the best authority that Wendy's has set up a telephonic hotline, and that they are offering a $100,000 reward for anyone able to offer information leading to the finger's source. Well, I have some information that you might find illuminating. Did I ever mention that I lost a finger not long ago while dining at one of your restaurants? It's true. I was up at the counter ordering my mechanically separated chicken pieces when the extra value menu that was hanging like the sword of Damocles over me unloosed itself from the ceiling. (Why are these crafted out of sharpened, serrated steel, anyway?) I jumped back, but alas, I was not nimble enough. My finger was sliced off as cleanly as with a guillotine. I could even see an old woman knitting in a nearby booth, like some Dickensian joke perpetrated by my cosmic nemeses. And I was fortunate. The abominable marker of savings might have severed an entire arm, and then I would have buried the restaurants in litigation.

Why haven't I spoken up at this until now? Well, out of shame and embarrassment, naturally. It's a dreadfully lowbrow anecdote, and when I'm out at the martini bar, trying to be persuasive with a lovely lady, I have found that a thrilling shark attack story sparks more interest on her part than a truthful account of the event. I have almost come to believe this version myself—Freud be praised!—until I heard from some smirking anchorman that my lost digit had concluded its hapless peregrination in a bowl of chili. Only then did I realize the gravity of the situation. I knew then that the time had come for me to speak out about this harrowing (and banal) experience. It is my burden to confront the unpleasant truth of my visit to Wendy's, or the event will come to dominate my life.

So, might I trouble you for that generous bounty promised for those who proffer relevant information?

Please?