My hands are able to do a lot of things. Some of these things are good, like playing the piano, typing my articles and making pancakes. Other things they don't do well, such as combing my hair, shaving my face, and again in some cases, typing my articles (lots of you readers agree, by the way.)

One thing that has made me pay more attention to my hands, however, is research conducted in Canada that confirms the obvious: Men with index fingers that are shorter than their ring finger are more likely to be aggressive than their counterparts with the exact opposite situation. Guess who suffers from this horrible mutation? I do.

So I stare at my overly aggressive fingers while they type furiously at the keyboard in a desperate attempt to type something meaningful, knowing I am a loaded gun with my (very short stubby index) finger on the trigger. What can a man do, besides get a finger transplant?

Snuggled between my index finger and my ring finger sits the real culprit. Snarling at my middle finger, I silently curse myself for all the times I oh-so-casually utilized that middle finger to express anger at aggressive drivers (who obviously suffer from the same genetic impairment as me), line jumpers at amusement parks and especially folks that had more than eight items in the express lane at the grocery story. Heck, I used it as recently as this past week when the weatherman informed me of more snow!

If only I had known that finger was actually pointing back at me, saying "you're angry and overly aggressive, as one day my neighboring phalange friends shall prove!"

As a father, of course, my immediate concern is for my son. No one wants their kids to suffer the same physical setbacks as they do, so I checked his hands yesterday. Sadly, he's destined to be poking that tiny index finger into someone's chest in a fit of rage more often than it will be used to gently stroke someone's face.

The signs were obvious with him, too. To cover up his inadequacies and overly aggressive behaviors, he has chosen to push his index finger deep into his nostril lately. Sure, other 3½-year-olds do the same thing, but it's out of fear and respect for my son and his soon-to-be bullying personality.

But wait a minute! A thought just came to me. When I was young and still in shape, I played football for many years and know for a fact that I broke both of my index fingers. Maybe they weren't this short originally and their current design is a result of these youthful days spent on the field.

The simple answer is to have someone pull my fingers (go ahead, insert your little potty humor joke here.)

The fact remains that if I could stretch my fingers back to their original length, everything would be better and I wouldn't have to worry about living a life of pent-up anger or potentially hazardous behavior to my loved ones.

Fortunately, that ugly side of my personality rarely takes over. In fact, I've been accused of being too passive, but I'm sure that's just a defense mechanism I've learned to use so that I don't turn into someone angry.

Just like the Incredible Hulk, you wouldn't like me when I'm angry. I wonder if the late Bill Bixby had the same types of hands as I do, and if so, why doesn't my skin turn green and muscle bound when I get ticked off?

Ah ha! I have the answer! From now on, I am going to walk around with one of those foam fingers worn at sporting events to compensate for my short index finger. That way, my resolve to remain calm will prevail at all times, kind of like wearing a rubber band around your wrist as a reminder to pick up milk at the grocery store.

Well, with that dilemma solved, I face one other challenge. It's very difficult to type with this darn foam finger on all the time.

Can you guess which finger I am using right now while correcting all the typos?