Sitting on the anvil is a thing of beauty. A silver sliver with a wooden handle, died forest green. The blade is nearly impossible to break, while remaining thin and supple without being any sharper than needed to slice and spread butter and cheese.
Nothing remains to show the effort that went in to its creation. Scraps and dust have been swept away. All tool marks have been polished off. The blade stands alone as its own achievement.
The anvil is surrounded by a light curtain alarm. The knife will remain where it is until the rightful owner appears with the correct toast. Only the correct toast will unlock the alarm and allow the blade to be used. For toast is bread reborn.
They say that knowledge is knowing that a tomato is a berry, but wisdom is knowing not to put one in a fruit salad.
They say a lot of funny things.
A lot of what they say is about as clear as a broken mirror. Sure, it shows you fragments of the truth, but there’s all the sharp edges, misaligned shards, and risk of cutting yourself to deal with. Look too closely and you miss that other parts are showing different views. Look too broadly and the image is hard to resolve.
Some say that mirrors are really just windows into another plane. Alice might have come to believe that. If they are a window, they aren’t the sort that can be opened by slipping a butter knife in and lifting the latch.
Ladies and gentlemen of the press, I stand before you here today to state clearly for the record that I have been falsely accused. As you know, my enemies are many, and some of them are probably in this room. Their current attack takes the form of quiet whispers questioning my sanity, claiming that I am paranoid. All the while they refuse to stand up and face me in public.
These are not the actions of people with evidence.
I am indeed sane.
Furthermore, I shouldn’t have to point out that whisperers claiming I am paranoid, distributed through anonymous channels and leaked recordings of unproven provenance and veracity actually support the idea that a healthy dose of skepticism is a good idea.
I do not go about armed. I do frequently carry a butter knife. In my day to day activity, I frequently have a slice of toast. That requires butter, and a knife to spread it. I am not armed. I am prepared.
I do not wear body armor. I do frequently wear thick sweaters. In case you haven’t noticed the obvious, it is cold recently. Sweaters are good insulation. The one I am wearing today was a gift from my mother, crocheted from the last of the wool gathered from her flock. Would they deny me a memento of my dear old mum?
I do not meet secretly with aliens. I assure you that if visited by beings from another world, the matter would not be a poorly kept secret. It would either be an extremely well kept secret, or entirely open and transparent. At least as transparent as the hulls of their supposed spacecraft. Which do not, of course, exist.
Finally, I do not consort with clowns. Let me say that I have no objection to people choosing of their own free will to wear the white face and red nose. It is not a life I would choose for myself or wish upon a close friend.
Thank you for your patience and I look forward to many future conferences to come.
The classic poem says “And laying his finger aside of his nose, / And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose”.
Obviously Clement Clarke Moore is concealing the true signal. If the magic were that easy to invoke, just imagine what would happen if the “right jolly old elf” should happen to sneeze?
The fat man would undoubtedly levitate in all directions at once. With results that can barely be imagined. In short, the results would be catastrophic, and likely paint the insides of the fireplace if not the entire room.
Running around with a knife to your face would be safer than that!
No, the details described are clearly nonsense designed to conceal the truth.