There is a bunch of a stuff that gets thrown in a drawer and forgotten. Old knives and photos, matchbooks and coins. It’s worth bugger all. Yet somehow it can’t be parted with. The drawer gets opened every few years and the stuff gets looked at.
I’ve been wondering what to do with my teeth. I’m talking about the broken ones. I thought about throwing them in a drawer. After all, they served me well. Chewed through a lot of meat, nuts and Christmas cake, which was good, and a fair amount of bullshit, delivered by politicians, religious zealots, racists and union workers, claiming they knew both Joe Hill and Woody Guthrie personally, but really only joined the union to be part of the laziness and apathy. They’re the ones that smile, plead ignorance and say the benefits are good, refusing to put in an honest day.
My father dressed a deer on the day I was born with a small pen knife. He forgot his hunting knife until after it was shot. He said he was out of sorts, but knew with another mouth to feed we needed the meat.
My teeth ain’t going into the drawer. I will fashion them into a lure and mount a hook. I’ve caught fish with just about everything. Corn, grasshoppers, worms, feathers, marshmallows and hot dogs. When I haven’t had a hook I’ve grabbed them with my hands.
If the teeth catch fish I may have to keep them out. That’s a benefit in the real world.