I did not read a book called Mr. Fingers.

I did not write a poem called “Mr. Fingers.”

I haven’t met anyone named Mr. Fingers.

I haven’t imagined anyone named Mr. Fingers.

I have eaten chicken fingers. I have ten fingers. It isn’t utterly impossible that I have given someone the finger. The word finger is quite odd after I repeat it often enough. But I still haven’t written a book called Mr. Fingers.

While I’m not above taking credit for someone else’s accomplishments, this time I’m going to demur. The glory is just too great for me to accept.