I was feeling “bleh” today, so I thought I’d have some soup (seeing as soup, if TV has taught me anything, has amazing restorative powers). I walked through my narrow kitchen lithely retrieving a bowl, spoon, can opener, and the aformentioned can of soup. Then, in one swift motion, I gracefully placed the can on the counter and readied the can opener, flipping it into business-mode like a butterfly knife. I was a man with a goal who knew exactly how to achieve it. I was at peace with the world and all was as it should be�

Until I looked down.

Several seconds passed as my left hand stayed curled around the tin of Campell�s, and the right lamely held the now useless opener. What the Hell was going on here? Did I mistakenly grab a Pepsi by mistake? Quick object-to-definition comparison: Cold? No. �Pepsi� printed on side of can? No. Hmmm, well it�s not a can of Pepsi.
Reconfirm soup: Says �soup� on the side? Yes. Well that�s that, then. Call off the National Guard, food items are not transmutating between food groups.

What then, was this pop-top looking thing on the top of my can of soup?! I thought the fact that we didn�t have to bash these things open with rocks was pretty convenient to begin with. And, seeing as I�d already reduced my cooking-time by opting for the microwave instead of the stove, I thought I was pretty much ahead of the game. Apparently, though, those eggheads at NASA had far loftier goals in mind when pondering soup evolution. Thankfully, they have graciously saved me from myself, and provided me with the means of completely separating the sharp disk of metal from its home, in one easy step, that I usually leave partially attached for safety. And we are all better for it. The question remains, though, what do I do with this cutting doo-hickey?

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