Saturday, October 26, 2013

Appreciating the hidden dangers of cheap canned meat.

In this post: Amateur surgery.

Hi, people. It’s 5:30 a.m. and I’m wide awake for no apparent reason. I got up about 40 minutes ago for a middle-of-the-night wee-wee and decided I was having way too much fun to go back to bed. Actually, I think my blood sugar might be low, but since I’m still conscious and typing let’s all try not to panic.

I would like to report that my finger doesn’t hurt. This is good news indeed, because I almost sliced it in half in the kitchen last night trying open a can of Libby’s corned beef. In case you have no experience with cheap canned meat, Libby’s corned beef is a bizarre, decades-old product in a weird little trapezoid can that you open with a key, just like sardines from the 1950s. During last night’s adventure the key snapped off so I did my best impression of King Kong and tried to rip the can apart with my bare hands. This was wrong on so many levels, but primarily because I practically BLED TO DEATH in the kitchen sink.
For your possible interest, the digit in question is the middle finger on my right hand. Or what’s left of it. Thank you.

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