- Joined
- Oct 24, 2002
- Messages
- 59
Fully aware of the dangers inherent to the consumption of alcohol and driving, the other day Marty and I decided to conduct a test to see if alcohol had any similar deleterious effects on knife usage. Our interest in these matters were mostly scientific in nature, but I will admit to a more practical interest. Since Marty and I often spend our evenings in front of the TV, snockered to the gills on the cheapest beer we can find, it would be helpful to know at what point fondling, er, handling our knives becomes too dangerous. Therefore we set up the following test protocol.
Both Marty and I selected one of our favorite knives. He chose a vintage Marbles Bison with the convex edge and 52-100 steel. I opted for a Dozier Professional Guide in Bobs famous razor sharp D2. For cutting material we rounded up a bunch of old carpet, a few cardboard boxes, a hundred feet of hemp rope, and some birch poles I cut earlier that week. To this we added a Spyderco Sharpmaker and loaded strop for the sharpening portion of the test. We then purchased a case of beer and set up shop in my garage. Our first inclination was to consume one beer an hour and record the results, but we soon realized the test would take too long at that rate of consumption so we moved up the rate to one beer every 10 minutes. I enlisted my wife, Bunny, to standby in case the test needed to be halted for safety reasons. She was not allowed to drink.
In order to establish a baseline, Marty and I sliced five feet of carpeting, 10 feet of rope, reduced one cardboard box to strips, and whittled a point on a birch pole before consuming our first beer. We accomplished these tasks in 10 minutes time without damage to the knives or ourselves. A quick retouch of the blades on the strop and we were ready for round two.
We then each took a beer and chugged it as fast as we could, after which we repeated the above listed tasks. Amazingly we finished in just nine minutes this time, again without mishap. Downing another beer, Marty and I stropped our blades and then went after the carpeting, rope, boxes, and poles. Our time went up to 10 ½ minutes in this round, and we noted our carpet and cardboard cuts were not as straight as before. Eager to continue the test, we drank another beer. After about 8 minutes, neither Marty or I had finished the carpet cuts and we had developed a powerful thirst. Despite my wifes protests and the test protocols, Marty grabbed two more beers and tossed one my way and we proceeded to quench our powerful thirst before continuing the test. As I worked on the cardboard I noted my blade was sawing through the material rather than slicing through it. We had forgotten to sharpen our blades. I immediately called a halt to the test to confer with Marty. As we drank another beer we decided the error was not fatal to the test, so we sharpened our blades and continued through this round, which according to Bunny took 20 minutes and three beers to complete.
At this point the test results become unclear. Marty and I chugged another beer and even offered one to Bunny, who decided to drink it since she no longer served any useful purpose to the test. She based this decision on my attempts to fence with Marty while he danced around the garage playing Zoro on the remaining cardboard boxes and my ping pong table. One beer later and I decided to add another part to the test protocol. I attracted Martys attention and said, ook, I can alance my ozier on my ongue. Of course I did this with the blade up. Marty just snickered and proceeded to try it blade down. He managed to say Outh! before spitting the knife from his mouth. He then began running around the garage waving his arms up and down, his tongue sticking out of his mouth as he tried to ask, Ith it beeding, ith it beeding?
Only a little bit, I replied. Here have another beer; itll clean out the wound. Taking another beer herself, my wife left the garage saying she couldnt bear to watch anymore.
Despite these setbacks I was unwilling to end the test so soon. Taking the last two beers I set them on my work bench and told Marty that the first one to hit a beer with their knife got to drink it. I sheathed my Dozier and whipped out a Busse Battle Mistress from my survival bag. Standing at the other end of the garage, I tossed it at the beer cans. The knife missed them entirely and instead buried itself in the drywall directly behind my work bench. Unfortunately, a relatively important wire ran behind that particular portion of drywall, namely the power supply to the garage lighting. Just before the lights went out I saw Martys arm flick forward sending his knife spinning toward the beer cans. The sound of spraying beer filled the darkness. Whooee! I yelled. You got one. Then in a simultaneous moment of enlightenment we both realized only one beer remained. Marty and I both made a staggering dash for the beer, but in the darkness forgot about the jumble of carpet, cardboard and rope lying about the floor. A length of rope caught my ankle and sent me spinning into Marty who was already stumbling over the birch poles and carpeting. We ended in a tangle on the floor, unable to rise, but intent on reaching that beer. I grabbed a birch pole to help me to my feet, but when I planted one end on what I thought was the garage floor I quickly realized I had skewered Marty in the foot with one of the sharpened poles. Despite his protestations, I managed to regain my feet before I removed the pole from his foot. I heard Marty grab one of the poles himself, and at first I thought he intended to use it as I had, but a wooshing sound near my head provided evidence to the contrary. He seemed to be blindly swinging the pole around him in what I now believe to be an attempt to find me in the darkness.
Bunny. Help, I cried. The door to the garage swung open and light spilled from inside the house. Bunny stood silhouetted in the door wearing a fairly see-through nightgown. Kliffy, stop playing around and come inside now, Bunny demanded. Suddenly I lost interest in the beer, and barking like a feral hound, I proceeded to chase after Bunny, who squealed playfully and led me on a merry chase about the house. Eventually I caught her.
The next morning I found my Dozier stuck to the hilt in our new leather sofa, but since sometime during the night I had carved a heart encircling Bunnys name in the top of our hardwood kitchen table, she was not too upset by the damage to the sofa.
Later that morning I found Marty in my kids tree house. He was busy counting his toes and fingers (he had them all). His tongue was fairly swollen, but he managed to tell me what he thought had happened. Apparently, after finding and consuming the last beer, he had stumbled into the back yard during the night only to be attacked by what he thought at the time was a vicious wolverine. He had climbed into the tree house to escape the attack. In the sober light of morning he realized the wolverine had merely been my dog Frito, a Mexican Chihuahua with an admittedly aggressive attitude.
Test conclusions: 1) Do not drink more than two beers and handle sharp implements. 2) Give my wife Bunny beer more often. 3) Always keep aspirin handy for the next morning.
Disclaimer: This is intended as humor only. These events are strictly fictitious. Do not try this test at home.
Both Marty and I selected one of our favorite knives. He chose a vintage Marbles Bison with the convex edge and 52-100 steel. I opted for a Dozier Professional Guide in Bobs famous razor sharp D2. For cutting material we rounded up a bunch of old carpet, a few cardboard boxes, a hundred feet of hemp rope, and some birch poles I cut earlier that week. To this we added a Spyderco Sharpmaker and loaded strop for the sharpening portion of the test. We then purchased a case of beer and set up shop in my garage. Our first inclination was to consume one beer an hour and record the results, but we soon realized the test would take too long at that rate of consumption so we moved up the rate to one beer every 10 minutes. I enlisted my wife, Bunny, to standby in case the test needed to be halted for safety reasons. She was not allowed to drink.
In order to establish a baseline, Marty and I sliced five feet of carpeting, 10 feet of rope, reduced one cardboard box to strips, and whittled a point on a birch pole before consuming our first beer. We accomplished these tasks in 10 minutes time without damage to the knives or ourselves. A quick retouch of the blades on the strop and we were ready for round two.
We then each took a beer and chugged it as fast as we could, after which we repeated the above listed tasks. Amazingly we finished in just nine minutes this time, again without mishap. Downing another beer, Marty and I stropped our blades and then went after the carpeting, rope, boxes, and poles. Our time went up to 10 ½ minutes in this round, and we noted our carpet and cardboard cuts were not as straight as before. Eager to continue the test, we drank another beer. After about 8 minutes, neither Marty or I had finished the carpet cuts and we had developed a powerful thirst. Despite my wifes protests and the test protocols, Marty grabbed two more beers and tossed one my way and we proceeded to quench our powerful thirst before continuing the test. As I worked on the cardboard I noted my blade was sawing through the material rather than slicing through it. We had forgotten to sharpen our blades. I immediately called a halt to the test to confer with Marty. As we drank another beer we decided the error was not fatal to the test, so we sharpened our blades and continued through this round, which according to Bunny took 20 minutes and three beers to complete.
At this point the test results become unclear. Marty and I chugged another beer and even offered one to Bunny, who decided to drink it since she no longer served any useful purpose to the test. She based this decision on my attempts to fence with Marty while he danced around the garage playing Zoro on the remaining cardboard boxes and my ping pong table. One beer later and I decided to add another part to the test protocol. I attracted Martys attention and said, ook, I can alance my ozier on my ongue. Of course I did this with the blade up. Marty just snickered and proceeded to try it blade down. He managed to say Outh! before spitting the knife from his mouth. He then began running around the garage waving his arms up and down, his tongue sticking out of his mouth as he tried to ask, Ith it beeding, ith it beeding?
Only a little bit, I replied. Here have another beer; itll clean out the wound. Taking another beer herself, my wife left the garage saying she couldnt bear to watch anymore.
Despite these setbacks I was unwilling to end the test so soon. Taking the last two beers I set them on my work bench and told Marty that the first one to hit a beer with their knife got to drink it. I sheathed my Dozier and whipped out a Busse Battle Mistress from my survival bag. Standing at the other end of the garage, I tossed it at the beer cans. The knife missed them entirely and instead buried itself in the drywall directly behind my work bench. Unfortunately, a relatively important wire ran behind that particular portion of drywall, namely the power supply to the garage lighting. Just before the lights went out I saw Martys arm flick forward sending his knife spinning toward the beer cans. The sound of spraying beer filled the darkness. Whooee! I yelled. You got one. Then in a simultaneous moment of enlightenment we both realized only one beer remained. Marty and I both made a staggering dash for the beer, but in the darkness forgot about the jumble of carpet, cardboard and rope lying about the floor. A length of rope caught my ankle and sent me spinning into Marty who was already stumbling over the birch poles and carpeting. We ended in a tangle on the floor, unable to rise, but intent on reaching that beer. I grabbed a birch pole to help me to my feet, but when I planted one end on what I thought was the garage floor I quickly realized I had skewered Marty in the foot with one of the sharpened poles. Despite his protestations, I managed to regain my feet before I removed the pole from his foot. I heard Marty grab one of the poles himself, and at first I thought he intended to use it as I had, but a wooshing sound near my head provided evidence to the contrary. He seemed to be blindly swinging the pole around him in what I now believe to be an attempt to find me in the darkness.
Bunny. Help, I cried. The door to the garage swung open and light spilled from inside the house. Bunny stood silhouetted in the door wearing a fairly see-through nightgown. Kliffy, stop playing around and come inside now, Bunny demanded. Suddenly I lost interest in the beer, and barking like a feral hound, I proceeded to chase after Bunny, who squealed playfully and led me on a merry chase about the house. Eventually I caught her.
The next morning I found my Dozier stuck to the hilt in our new leather sofa, but since sometime during the night I had carved a heart encircling Bunnys name in the top of our hardwood kitchen table, she was not too upset by the damage to the sofa.
Later that morning I found Marty in my kids tree house. He was busy counting his toes and fingers (he had them all). His tongue was fairly swollen, but he managed to tell me what he thought had happened. Apparently, after finding and consuming the last beer, he had stumbled into the back yard during the night only to be attacked by what he thought at the time was a vicious wolverine. He had climbed into the tree house to escape the attack. In the sober light of morning he realized the wolverine had merely been my dog Frito, a Mexican Chihuahua with an admittedly aggressive attitude.
Test conclusions: 1) Do not drink more than two beers and handle sharp implements. 2) Give my wife Bunny beer more often. 3) Always keep aspirin handy for the next morning.
Disclaimer: This is intended as humor only. These events are strictly fictitious. Do not try this test at home.
