My elbows have a life of their own. They flail around, bashing into things, and then expect me to apologise on their behalf. Some elbow-stricken things are easy to apologise to: a friend; a doorframe; a packet of biscuits; a crowd (in general); another, similarly flailing, elbow. Some are harder to apologise to, and an apology isn't anywhere close to enough when you look at what my elbows have destroyed: a cold glass of beer on a hot day; a priceless vase; a set of keys with no spare; the nose of another, less friendly friend; the only television screen in the building during the climax of an important sports competition, or war.
My elbows conspire against me. If they could laugh, they'd be laughing constantly as I run around trying to clean up their mess.
They have no sense of space; no remorse at the many things they ruin; no empathy for the apologetic buffoon whose body they represent.