Birthday presents are a very special way to celebrate a very important date in each and every one of our lives. A gift is a great way for those with materialistic views on life to commemorate any special occasion, or just a way to make a greedy kid shut up. I would like to take this blog to reminisce about some of the most iconic presents in Allen family history. One of my fondest memories of birthday celebrations is when my brother (Mike Allen) got his first knife. Let me take a moment to corral the many outcomes that you have come up with due to the brilliance of the sentence that you have just read (I hope that you will not be disappointed). First off, if you ever observe anything (no matter what sensory source it has come from) that involves Mike Allen and a knife, I recommend that you start running very fast and very far. Let me give a bit of background of this scenario. It was early May, 2010, and my brother had just turned 10. He was an aspiring boy scout who had as many merit badges as anyone in his troop, he had proven his skill with various weapons, including but not limited to, bow and arrow, tomahawks, and the quite unique office chair (which was especially dangerous). He had worked with many knives and could easily boast a mastery of any blade from kukris to kitchen knives (though he’d be lying). Although he may not have been able to work his head around a katana, one could rightly assume that he had enough experience to figure out a basic 1.5-inch Swiss Army pocket knife. Never were less true words uttered from human lips.
It was Mike’s tenth birthday, and my parents had the bright idea of presenting him with his first pocket knife. To a 10 year old, a pocket knife was not only a killing machine formidable enough to scare your brother when you chased him with it (those were dark times), but it also represented that your parents were investing trust in you and allowing you to grow your responsibility. My parents were very cautious with giving their 10 year old son such a dangerous weapon, so they sat him down before he used it and gave him a long talk about when, where, and how he should use it (only with parental supervision, don’t cut towards yourself, etc.). My brother happened to miss the former instruction and not 30 seconds after my parents had turned their back, a single word could be heard uttered from the other room, just a simple oops. It was not said loudly or with inherent pain in the voice. Nor was it sorrowful, the same as someone who left the keys in the ignition of their car, or upset, as the joyrider would say after they ran said car off of a bridge. It was just oops, as simple as any word in a conversation. As matter of fact as, “Please turn your textbooks to page oops,” or, “No, I did not read oops, but it sounds interesting.”
Such a monotonous word sent the entire family rushing to my brother’s aid, or in my case, to find something to laugh at. I arrived to find my brother staring at his thumb curiously, as if he had just realized that it was there. He did not even seem to notice the blood gushing out of his opposable digit, and seemed to be in deep contemplation of the meaning of life. Naturally, the thumb was bandaged and the blade confiscated until such a date that my parents felt that it could be re-bestowed upon its rightful owner. This event occurred some three months later after I had gone to bed. I lay awake listening to my brother’s excitement blossom as he regained control of his Excalibur. I remained awake pondering what my brother would do with his blade this time. My question was answered about 3 minutes later when I heard a faint oops from my brother’s room across the hall.
Epilogue: The second oops was not just a part to make my story more humorous, my brother actually did cut himself a second time on that night. Thanks for reading!!
 |
| Swiss Army Knife |
LOL (literally)
ReplyDelete