The music had stopped and the night was coming to an end. Inside this rustic, probably haunted dive bar, hung some merchandise that read: La Honda - You Can’t Make This Shit Up. This has always been an oddball place and I couldn’t agree more.

There I was waiting to pay my tab and call it a night when the bartender questioned, “Is that really your last name?”

“Of course it is.” I replied.

“Do you know the man sitting next to you?” she chuckled.

At this point I’m now exchanging looks with this random guy next me and respond, “No.”

The bartender is laughing up a storm now and she says, “Mr Finger, meet Mr Hand. Mr Hand, meet Mr Finger.”

What are the odds that I sat down one bar stool away from Mr Hand?

I should have bought a lottery ticket.