Machete Sharp

I bought a machete at a garage sale a few months ago. It cost only three dollars.  Seeing the price, I felt compelled to succumb to my urge to own a long, dangerous knife, the kind with a blade that speaks unapologetically of the machismo of its owner and master.

This unapologetic oratory, I should note, requires the knife to be sharp. This one was dull as a dowel.  The rhetoric, then, could not take place until I addressed that fault.

While my wife was away these past few days, I discovered that a mere sharpening stone was not equal to the task.  I realized, absent a bench grinder, my shop (such as it is) would be of little help.  Then, I realized I own a metal file with single-cut teeth, just what I would need to remove massive amounts of metal from the dowel-like blade.  And so I went to work.

In short order, the blade—while a far-cry from being razor-sharp—was at least machete sharp. I flexed my muscles and spoke unapologetically, on the blade’s behalf, into the mirror.

The mirror laughed and commented about my unimpressive biceps.  I would have sliced into the mirror for that transgression, but the blade was only machete sharp.

About John Swinburn

"Love not what you are but what you may become."― Miguel de Cervantes
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