MMMmmmmmm….. Few things are tastier then a freshly opened can of
Copenhagen. So tasty in fact, one almost rushes through the last
little bit of the old can, in order to get to the new. Sitting in
front of me is, at last, a brand new can. I pick it up off my desk,
after basking in its warmth for a while. On the bottom I read a
date, a date that upon inspection of my calendar is a mere five days
previous. This can is hot off the line, so hot in fact I can still
smell the sweet stench of the illegal immigrant that runs the
machines used to pack and label it.
With a smile on my face, I proceed to pack the can. I revel in the
thought that for once in this poor excuse of a life, I have
outsmarted the MAN. I will swing hard and pack tight the innards of
the can with no fear that the lid will come off. The label is still
intact, un-cut as a newborn Jewish boy. After fiercely packing what
is sure to be the best dip of this cans short life span, I chuckle
at those poor souls less fortunate then myself. Never knowing what a
true tobacco buzz is, smoking their dried out sticks that are only
suitable for driving off mosquitoes in the hot summer time.
I pick up my razor knife, making a fine cut just along the bottom of
the lid. To tear with my fingernail would be acceptable in an
emergency, but this is the preferred method by all that are worldly.
After the incision is made, my heart skips a beat, and I feel a
warmth in my cheek from the anticipation. It won’t be long now.
I go to gently twist off the cap, can positioned so that I can be
the first to smell the aroma that is soon to pour out….
Still twisting the cap…
The cap will not twist. HA! I must have missed some of the paper,
even with the precision of a razor knife. My hands are starting to
shake a little bit, but I quickly run the knife around the edge
again, assuring my shaken nerves that it will only be a few seconds
longer.
Again, I twist the cap, a little less gently this time. Again, it
will not budge. I try twisting it the other direction, try thumping
it on the top of the can, try twisting it even harder.
Panic Mode. Why do the gods tempt me so? My mind races with
possibilities, which equal one: Pull HARDER. I grasp the can tightly
with my left hand, while the fingers on my right clench the top. My
brain signals to my hands to pull the can and lid apart, then
something MIRACULOUS happens…
I drop the can on the desk. I look at my hands, unable to comprehend
what I was about to do. As if the lessons of the past, of vast
amounts of chewing tobacco all over my office had been forgotten.
Doomed to repeat past mistakes. I weep.
I steady my shattered nerves, and again pick up the can, and again
attempt to twist the top off. Again it holds fast, mocking me as if
I were a small boy stroking a flaccid penis.
I put the can down, and curse it repeatedly. I’m not sure that this
particular can has a family, or even a “house”, but I brought the
curses of the damned down upon both just to be sure and to let it
know that I was one not to be trifled with. I once again pick up my
razor knife, trying to decide which side I cut out would be more
painful to the can. Tin, or cardboard? The knife would easily cut
either. Then, it hits me: use the knife as a prying device. Joy
replaces dread, and I align the dull edge of the blade with the
bottom of the metal cap. I pry. This does an outstanding job of
tearing the paper, yet yields poor results of removing the lid.
I throw the can against my monitor. It drops unharmed to my desk,
daring me to try again. I stab my knife into the desk next to it,
and proceed to insult the can and the cans’ mother all the while
using both hands to give it the “bird”.
Mean while, a mere three feet away, my office mate turns in his
chair and asks politely: “What the fuck is going on?” Not happy
about being interrupted, I turn on him and let fly a swift left
handed slap to the side of his jaw. I offer up a challenge to him in
the form of a question: “You want some more, BITCH? Because I’ll
call out the dogs on you!!!” As I said the last part, I swiftly
kicked him in the nuts, and he collapsed on the floor.
I turn back to the can, rage boiling up inside of me, getting ready
to spew out in one ejaculatory thrust.
“The can must be sealed,” said a voice from the last bastion of
sanity in the back of my brain. “Sealed with what? It’s mothers own
whoring juices?” I scream out loud, seemingly to nobody. “With the
wax used to keep the contents fresh” says the voice…
I reach for the can, intent on finding a source of heat hot enough
to melt the wax. Anger pours through me, and I involuntarily squeeze
the can from the sides. I feel it start to give. I stop, three feet
from the blast furnace (also known as the office farthest away from
the thermostat), and look at the can.
The tension on the sides of the can where my fingerprints now would
have permanent residence has caused the lid to move slightly. I
gently squeeze the sides of the can, working my way around, until
all the wax is broken on the inside. I then easily twist the lid
off, and reach in with thumb and forefinger and pull out a large
dip, and place it between my cheek and gum.
The room fades from shades of red on red back to normal colors, and
it is as if I am seeing the world anew, with all the contrasting
colors and textures. I can even see the wind currents blowing out of
the partially closed vent in the next office over. I stroll back to
my office, and upon entering, see that my coworker is lying on the
floor grasping his crotch with tears in his eyes.
I tower over him, and announce news that is sure to raise his
spirits: “Hey, don’t just lay there!!! I got my chew open!!!”
