Sam has jammed fingers on his hand from the plan of shutting the door on his hands.

The revolts rejoice and the volts from his nerves twitch and tingle as his Pinky’s left dangle.

He hates his left hand, it’s no right hand.

So he keeps on with his rights and carries on to the mill, where he prints paper Mills and kills the wrecked papers.

The mail has arrived, it's the clerk for left hands, the rubber bands on his head really foiled his plans when he jammed his left hand.

His plan b was to collect the life insurance warranty for which a grand would suffice from all these rubber bands in his eyes.

He continued down hall to the manager's office, knocked with a swollen left hand, but it was quiet so switched to right hand. His manager heard this.

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“What do you want you little scoundrel,” the manager hissed behind papers on desk. 

“Not my fault I assure, my hand slipped and is no more!” Sam boomed waving his flabby babby handy dandy mischief for all to see.

Marching forth the manager took a rubber band from Sams eyes and struck one round Sams pinky connected it with the group. “Nothing to worry about, all fine and good. Now jog on! Get to pressing!” the money crazed manager ordered in disgust.

Sam looked upon his mangled paw as he walked through the door and down the hall. His hand had failed him as had his plan. But perhaps the biggest failure was his inability to watch party preme limousine magic the third part in the flesh, in the movie theatre downtown. 

“It be, so let it be, as Paul McCartney once tweeted” He sang to himself as he returned to his press. 

He lined up a rectangle paper, all invalid and pointless. He then stamped the paper, but not without his hand under also. And kicks a nail with his toenail.

“Time for plan C.”