He tried again and this time a children's cartoon popped on the screen, the kind that teach kids about letters and numbers. Sanders hated them.
"Devil take those damn commies!"
Sanders took the phrase "In soviet Russia TVs watch you." a bit too seriously and applied all suspicious, television related events to communists. These happened often because his TV was a royal mess. He attempted to throw the remote at the floor but only succeeded in throwing it at the TV screen and breaking both of them.
"Fuck! What the hell is wrong with my hand?! Hmmm, I need a drink."
Sanders could often be found at various pubs drinking and, depending what time you caught him there, talking at various degrees of comprehensibility. He mostly stuck to beer but on days that he encountered more things that he hated then usual, he drank gin.
"Give me a shot of your strongest stuff Al, and leave the bottle."
The bartender, Al, obliged and after a quick chat about what sort of day Sanders had had, he left.
"Oh you don't even know! My friggin TV blew up!"
That was his general reply to that sort of question from other people in the bar, most of who he knew intimately and hated. Though toward the end his replies where usually closer to "Don't you know you lesbo? TVs blow up!" His hand stopped bothering him for the most part, though he had trouble projecting the alcohol to his mouth after a couple of drinks.
"Another one snappy, and make it Al. I mean, another one Al, and make it snappy."
The trouble began when one of Sander's old friends walked into a bar, a Rabbi who he had knew from a Muslim bashing internet forum, of course Sander bashed Jews as well and that didn't sit well with mister Rabbi, but they where happy to see each other anyway. Sander and the Rabbi tried to hug each other, but Sander's hand had a different idea and went for his throat. Before the job was finished though, a bunch of very drunk men pulled Sander off the Rabbi. Sander muttered something about nerve ending deficiency and everyone believed him. All except the Rabbi who ran off with rectangular plastic card shouting, "I've got your social security number!"
"This is wrong!"
That's what Sander said after he had sobered up enough to tell his ass from a hole in the ground. And the situation had worsened because his hand had tried to strangle, stab, and slap a number of people on his way home.
"My hand must be possessed! I can't think of any other explanation, so I suppose I'll have to do something about that."
After a few unsuccessful attempts at exorcism, because Sander's right hand kept hitting him, he resorted to simply tying it down and vowing to use his left hand for everything. This proved to be somewhat of a problem because Sander was very much right handed.
"Ahgggg! That's the third time today!"
Sander had just run over his foot with a lawn mower, which he insisted on mowing every other day in the hope of selling his run-down barn, of a house. This was probably the only real work that Sander ever did around the house. That day though, Sander realized that he would have to put off his yard work for a few days, or maybe even forever. He just couldn't do it with his left hand.