I just survived a knife fight. A fight with my own knife. Don’t worry, I’m okay. (Sorry MAGA). Looking back, I see that this was unavoidable.
Tonight’s altercation began with my divorce eleven years ago. Like many single men, my first purchase upon receiving my discharge was a kitchen knife set. It’s top of the line. The manufacturer claims the knife handles feature an “ergonomic design.” Ergo, that must be good. The knives are so sharp you can split subatomic particles with them.
My twenty-piece knife set came with an attractive wooden block for knife storage. (You single guys, take it from me. Buy a knife set tonight. Women will see that on your counter and assume you cook and can care for yourself). (Barb, remind me to write a column on fallacies).
But what started tonight’s fight was that the dude that designed the wooden block wasn’t in the top .01% of all OCD men. (Ricky Bobby said it best – “If you’re not first, you’re last.”). Because that – um — person decided that seven of the eight knives to be stored in the front of the block should be steak knives, but the eighth should be a shorter paring knife. I have never wanted or needed a paring knife in my life.
Well, if we’re being honest (and why not?), maybe tonight’s fight began with the Big Bang, not my divorce. But good writers fast forward through the boring stuff. So, let’s skip the first 13.7 billion years and continue to tonight’s altercation.
If math is not your forte, let me explain the problem. Because some dude with a doctorate in “cutlery design” dropped acid a few hours before designing this knife set, every time I reach for a steak knife, there’s a 12.5% chance I will get the paring knife. Which, as I may have mentioned, I have never wanted or needed. But I want and need Astro.
Astro is my Irish Wolfhound. I love large dogs. Because when you receive as much hate mail as I do, it’s just common sense to keep a fiercely protective 140-pound dog at your side at all times. And, okay, I’m compensating. I like how Astro makes process servers feel. (Barb, remind me to write a column about the time a process server strolled into my Nederland office only to be met by my giant bloodhound. And I had to explain that serving papers in Nederland was different than serving papers in Denver. Because even the liberals in Nederland own guns).
Astro has a heart condition, which I recently learned happens to about 30% of all Irish Wolfhounds between the ages of four and five. Asto is 4 ½. I must give Astro three pills twice a day. And, being highly intelligent, Astro knows he can force me to put those pills into tiny pieces of hot dog that I cut with a — (drum roll) steak knife.
So, tonight, about an hour ago, because I love Astro, I danced from my living room to my refrigerator. (You single guys, take it from me. Having your own refrigerator is also a big plus with the ladies).
But enough free dating advice. I removed the plastic bag filled with hot dogs from my refrigerator and sashayed toward the counter and the knife set that sits on it. I reached for a – steak knife. Did I get a steak knife? No. What did I get? If you guessed paring knife, do something nice for yourself. (Within limits).
Well, that was it. Big Knife had pushed Mark just once too often. I spent seven years in the Air Force (admittedly in a very safe desk job). Still, the Soviets could have nuked the Strategic Air Command legal office at any time. Ergo, I should not have to spend 12.5% of my knife hunting life putting away the paring knife and replacing it with a real knife.
Think about it. I spend three minutes each morning and evening getting the pills ready for Astro. Six minutes each day. But, for sake of argument, let’s assume I spend only a few seconds looking for the proper knife. Most times I get the steak knife, but 12.5% of the time I get the paring knife. And let’s assume that when I get the paring knife it takes me ten seconds to put it away and retrieve a steak knife.
That’s 7.6 minutes each year out of my life because of a flawed knife set design. (I think we can trust me on the math because even though I earned three D’s and a D-minus in 7th grade math from Kermit Folvin, I later wrote The Fractal Murders and became pen pals with Benoit Mandlebrot). 7.6 minutes a year might not seem like that much time, but I could easily have sex in less time than that. Maybe twice.
I’m sixty-five. Let’s assume I’ve got another sixty-five years left. That’s fair because I work hard to stay in shape. (If you’re not first, you’re last). My mother, rest her soul, lived to be ninety-two. My dad, who should have died from skin cancer when he was fifty because all he did in his limited free time was soak up the sun, lived to be eighty-three. (He worked too hard. Because he was compensating). So, it’s reasonable to assume I’ll live to be 130. And I’ll probably still be practicing law. And still writing this column. (Sorry, MAGA).
That’s 8.23 hours of my life wasted because of a poorly designed knife set. (Barb, remind me to write column about the benefits of the Roman numeral system. Because the Romans did not use fractions or decimals, and their empire lasted much longer than it looks like ours will).
8.23 hours of my life. At my hourly rate, the dude that designed this knife set owes me $3,086.25. (And don’t even start with that voodoo about how I need to discount that to consider present value because I’m sure my rate increases in the next sixty-five years will more than make up for that).
Well, as you may have surmised, I got the paring knife tonight. But instead of getting angry, I gently set it down and reached for the largest knife in the set. I showed it to the paring knife and said, “Now, that’s a knife.” Just like Crocodile Dundee.
Then, instead of letting Big Knife manipulate me, I took a deep breath and calmly reflected on the problem. I said the traditional Hebrew prayer for the disposal of a paring knife and gently placed the paring knife in the back of my utensil drawer where I keep the tongs, pizza cutter, and other kitchen utensils I never use. Problem solved.
I want the world to know I am prepared to scour the Earth for the dude that designed this knife set.
Wait a minute, my brother (Roy Jhciacb Cohen) is calling.
Roy said two things. First, he said that he is more OCD than me. (Because if you’re not first, you’re last). Second, he said the knife set was designed for eight steak knives and I just messed up by losing one of them and using the eighth slot for a paring knife.
I told him that’s just what Big Knife wants us to believe.
