I opened up my pocketknife and cut a piece of cheese. The blade was sharp enough to shave and sliced the cheese with ease.
My good wife asked me, “Have you ever washed your knife with soap?” I slightly hesitated, then I answered with a “Nope!”
And then she said, “I wonder what your knife’s been in today?” I had to think a minute, but as far as I could say,
“Well, Old Cyruss had a nasty sore that oozed a bit of pus. So I sliced it with my pocketknife. Now there ain’t no need to fuss.
“Cuz I wiped the blade across my shirt between the spurts of goo. That sore had built up pressure, squirted out from here to you.
“I cut a month of cockleburs right off the mane and tail. Whoa, you better take a load off, hon. You’re lookin’ mighty pale.
“The sliver that was festerin’ alongside my big toe, well, I dug it with my pocketknife. There ain’t much left to show.
“And talk about my toe, I got a nasty case of gout. But still opened up my pocketknife and cleaned my toenails out.”
I’d have to say in my lifetime ain’t found a better tool. And if you’ve never had a knife, well maybe you’re the fool.
My father gave me my first knife when I turned eight years old. The finest gift I’d ever had, meant more to me than gold.
I never leave the house without my pocketknife at hand. To me it’s more than just a knife. No need to understand.
So, don’t you fret none ’bout my knife. I know you think it’s rank. I soaked it deep in alcohol. The brand your uncle drank.
And if you’re wonderin’ did I throw your uncle’s booze away? Well, I did one even better, chugged the last drop down today.
—Bryce Angell
