Typing With an Elephant Arm

Ladies, please, before you look away from my elephant arm in disgust and click to another personal ad featuring a photo of an equi-limbed hunk taken ten years ago, hear me out. It’s bad enough that my shirts are tailored to create a right sleeve capable of encasing an oil tanker; or that the only nose I can pick is Teddy Roosevelt’s on Mount Rushmore; or that when I go to swat a fly, the result is a twelve inch hole looking into the next apartment, the resident of which is an eighty-year-old lady  who likes to parade around in the nude  – yeah, it all sucks, but now I have to type this ad using what amounts to battering rams for fingers.

I would cite the tired cliché about how I am not an animal, I am a man, but, scientifically speaking, I am one-sixth beast and a far-from-unanimous eighty-three percent human male. So, ladies, what I am offering is my elephant arm as my most endearing quality.

Would it not be cool for the two of us, in a Karaoke contest, to perform the song “Stop in the Name of Love,” mimicking The Supremes as we, in unison, hold out our palms like a set of policemen stopping traffic, you with your lithesome, well manicured hand and me with my giant flattened elephant paw? Or we could march in your favorite liberal cause where I could punch the air with a protesting fist that looks more like a support beam on the bottom floor of a skyscraper – so long as we are together.

Say we are walking along the Nevsky Prospekt on a sub-zero degree night and you need an arm to hold for warmth and comfort. Now would a standard-issue human stick limb do the trick? Or would you prefer hugging a tree trunk heated by a Venice-like network of blood canals? And as you snuggle around my elephant arm and peak up at me under your Russian fur hood, we will both know that true romance is indeed possible between a beautiful, one-hundred percent woman and an eighty-three percent man.