There's an old saying that goes, ""Live by the can opener, die by the can opener."" Never has this phrase been truer than it is right now.
First off, I must admit that I lied—that's not an old saying, in fact, it's one I just made up roughly 12 seconds ago. But it is accurate that the saying is true, as I found out this weekend.
Saturday sidelined me with an annoying cold. I wasn't about to let it get the best of me, I knew how to destroy it—soup.
I laughed as I pulled my delightful Shur Fine Chicken Noodle Soup from the cupboard. And if that weren't enough to do the trick, I knew I had both cream of chicken and cream of asparagus nearby.
The cold stood no chance.
That is, until I realized my apartment had turned into a black hole and devoured the only means I had of obtaining the life-giving soup.
Live by the can opener, die by the can opener—and I was dying.
I didn't want to go out and buy a brand new can opener, because I know that immediately after I take it out of the package, the original one would turn up. I cannot foresee a situation where I'd need to double-wield openers, unless I wanted to create the next Mega Man end boss (weakness: salmon beam).
Were I to get another, I know it'd be the toenail clipper incident of '04 all over again.
A quick Wikipedia search revealed that tin cans were invented before the can opener. Fifty years beforehand, in fact.
I knew these people weren't just sitting around going ""We've got these cans... heck if we know what to do with them.""
These people opened their can for the delightful snacks inside, and I would too. The only difference is that mine would save my life, a much nobler endeavor.
Wikipedia recommended using knives, chisels or rocks.
I attempted to use each one of these tools to no avail—knives cut flesh, chisels are for statues and the rock, while fun to throw, tends to shatter stuff. Oh, how I hate living in a glass house.
I was doomed to die a horrible death if I did not get my sustenance.
But then, a very Neo-esque thought occurred to me—there was no can. The only thing holding my soup hostage was my imagination.
After several minutes of trying I realized that not only was there still a tin can, but the mental strain I exerted in trying to dematerialize the can had made me feel even sicker.
It seemed like all hope was lost. Nothing would cure me that night, and I'd be doomed to failure. It was time to throw in the towel.
Finally, inspiration struck.
I triumphantly walked out of my apartment, to the store, and bought me a can of soup with a pop top lid.
I succeeded in my mission, I proved the adage I created incorrect. I lived without the can opener, and it did not kill me.
If you've found other ways to live without can openers, share them with Kevin at KevinNelson@wisc.edu.
