Done been thinking about beans

It wasn't the first time I've been outwitted by a can of beans and I fear, alas, that it won't be the last. I've had some experience with the little bastards, I've opened my share of cans over the years. There have been failures yes, but also great successes. There were times when the cans opened as if by magic. Like Ali Baba I have learned secret commands. I've crept up to them, "Now I've got you, you beany little bastards!" - and with a murmur the container's feeble lid peels back like foil, exposing the simple legumes to the lights glinting from my greedy eyes. Other times haven't been so easy, such as when opening a can requires the full measure of my strength. At these times sweat pores out of my pores and I have to be careful not to let my body's salty brine from spoiling the beans. Most of the time, whether by good fortune or great effort, I do manage to open the can and then go on to commit all sorts of heinous acts with and to the beans. It's a free world, each man's beans are his own to do with as he pleases. I counter those who would say, "let the beans be!" with "Mind your own beans and keep your pathetic, undernourished opinions about the beans of others to yourself."

So it was that I with no idea of the struggle that was to come, took up a can of chickpeas and set about working its top free. At first everything went along smoothly, as events like this often do. I lept to the cupboard and found my trusty can opener, gave it a quick inspection to ensure this invaluable tool would yet again be capable of meeting the challenge. It's humble mechanisms seemed ready as ever to carry out my will, the small cutting wheel turned without a squeak, its pliers appearing fully able to grip the tin's lip without trouble. The tool glistened in the afternoon sunlight so brightly that tears formed in my eyes, I couldn't handle its gleaming nor its beauty. So without any sense of pending doom, I made for the chickpeas and sunk my tool's cutting wheel deep into its waxy metallic top hat. As usual, so far so good. I began to turn the key and the cutting proceeded along its circumnavigation.

It was then that I realized that I had tried to fly too high, my wings began to melt and soon I was plummeting past the descending rungs of hell into its most vile and painful depths. I was thwarted by logic, I caught a bad case of Zeno's Paradoxitis. With each turn of the opener's key, the cutting wheel ate into the distance between its starting point and its goal. Slightly smaller intervals remained with each twist so that eventually a slight fraction of a hair's breadth was all that was holding fast the tin's stubborn seal. But I was not able to snip the ribbon, because with every turn of the key, the wheel moved halfway towards its object, and though the distance became increasingly minute there was always half the remaining distance to cover first. No matter how small the gap, it had a halfway point, forever. Not even my trusty electron microscope (note accompanying image) could see an end to this interminable turning and cutting. After many days turning and cutting tiny distances, I cried out to the heavens, "Chickpeas be damned!" and in my confused rage squeezed the nasty tin to kill it.

Just then the top popped off! It clanged and clamored as it hit the kitchen floor, and the sound reminded me of the ringing of bells that mark momentous occasions. Streamers and confetti fell from the ceiling, and a parade of well wishers suddenly appeared, they were patting me on the back and congratulating me on my accomplishment. Many noted the supreme skill I had displayed carrying out my task. No matter. I had a chili to prepare and so with little further ceremony I dumped the foul garbanzos into the pot. Such are the wonders of this life.