I pronounce this baby EVIL!

Fed up with my insistance to make light of anything my high school Latin instructor tried to teach me, whether it be passive periphrastics or “cum clauses” with a genitive deponent, he said to me:


“You know in Sparta, once a child was found to be left-handed, he was placed in a catapult and flung into the hillside, never to be seen again. . .frankly you should be lucky you’ve made it this far.”


That’s stuck with me, far more than anything having to do with the language itself (frankly I learned more the second time I watched Gladiator). So because of that I must treat each day not battered and abandoned in the hills like a gift from Zeus, because countless little Spartans who accidently turned a doorknob (did they have doorknobs back then?) with the wrong hand weren’t so lucky.


Yes, I’m left-handed. But like most of our species, have somewhat defected in many ways to the ‘right’ way.


I play golf right-handed, and whenever I see a lefty, a brief feeling of betrayal hits me, like the look your former barber gives you when you run into him in the mall. But I get over it, and soon enough I have a much bigger selection of putters to choose from than him.


Then again, I see why being lefty is found to be a sign of the devil whenever I see a lefty playing golf. Watching it is fricking weird and awkward. I’ve felt more comfortable watching a full episode of “Last Call with Carson Daly".


It’s also mildly entertaining whenever a lefty wins a tournament. The press treats him like he’s triumphantly overcome a life-threatening obstacle. “He beat the odds at Pebble Beach this week! Like a kangaroo who just knocked out Joe Frazier!”