- Joined
- Jul 10, 2011
- Messages
- 1,941
To you my BK11, I dedicate this to:
"Woe is you, poor BK11, snatched so mercilessly from the safety of your home inside my car door. I still remember the day we met; Once you had been rescued from the cardboard prison to which you had been immured, I set about remedying the wounds of your pococurante birth. Perhaps I saw a bit of myself in your uneven grinds and woeful secondary bevels, like a beautiful flower who simply needed some water to blossom. For nary a second did I ever doubt my love for you; if working on knives is a labor of love, then I suppose you and I must have been married. When I first laid eyes upon you dolled up in your Saint Cutlery Micarta scales, the feeling was as a groom seeing his bride in the wedding chapel for the first time. It was overwhelming, inundating; in that moment I knew you would eternally be my faithful companion. To me, you were beautiful, mustard stained patina and all. Oh, I remember just the other night, when you opened a can of pineapples for me without the faintest murmur of complaint. You did not roll your edge in outrage, you did not chip in umbrage. On the contrary, you whispered delicately into my ear: "more". But alas! We will have no more of these adventures together, may god condemn the damned larcenist who kidnapped you to a fate worse then hell! Yet my pleas will go unheard, and you shall remain entombed in the plastic grave from whence you came. You may have been stripped of your wretched black coating, my love, but no one will ever strip you of your innocence."
Now, a moment of silence for my beloved BK11.
RIP, 2012-2012.
"Woe is you, poor BK11, snatched so mercilessly from the safety of your home inside my car door. I still remember the day we met; Once you had been rescued from the cardboard prison to which you had been immured, I set about remedying the wounds of your pococurante birth. Perhaps I saw a bit of myself in your uneven grinds and woeful secondary bevels, like a beautiful flower who simply needed some water to blossom. For nary a second did I ever doubt my love for you; if working on knives is a labor of love, then I suppose you and I must have been married. When I first laid eyes upon you dolled up in your Saint Cutlery Micarta scales, the feeling was as a groom seeing his bride in the wedding chapel for the first time. It was overwhelming, inundating; in that moment I knew you would eternally be my faithful companion. To me, you were beautiful, mustard stained patina and all. Oh, I remember just the other night, when you opened a can of pineapples for me without the faintest murmur of complaint. You did not roll your edge in outrage, you did not chip in umbrage. On the contrary, you whispered delicately into my ear: "more". But alas! We will have no more of these adventures together, may god condemn the damned larcenist who kidnapped you to a fate worse then hell! Yet my pleas will go unheard, and you shall remain entombed in the plastic grave from whence you came. You may have been stripped of your wretched black coating, my love, but no one will ever strip you of your innocence."
Now, a moment of silence for my beloved BK11.
RIP, 2012-2012.
Sorry for your loss brother. Hope you'll be reunited with your True Love again one day.
