I think everyone at some time in their life has heard this phrase yelled by their mother when going to cut up some bits of paper, string, little brother, or carpet. These were the scissors she would use as part of her sewing arsenel, to make embarrasing items of clothing for the whole family. I don't think these scissors even came off the cardboard backing from the shop, or maybe mum would carefully untie and re-tie the little wire ties that were holding it on when she used them. Enough about the fucking good scissors mum, I'd like to call them the NEAREST scissors.

This phrase scared me, because if The Good Scissors were what I was holding, then somewhere lurking about the house were... THE BAD SCISSORS .... the ones that would sneak into your room late at night and cut holes in your socks, and they were the ones that cut open the new carton of orange juice before the old one was finished.

I live by myself now, and have not yet established a class system for cutting implements, they are all MY scissors.
In elementary school, The Good Scissors™ were the pointy-ended ones. We weren't allowed to have 'em; we had to use the lame roundy-ended scissors (this was presumably for our safety or something). The roundy ones were terrible for cutting, being simply two blunt pieces of metal attached by a brad. Thus, since they were forbidden and because they were actually useful, the pointy scissors were coveted by us first-graders as The Good Scissors™. Aaah....

* Trelane soaks in a goodly amount of nostalgia.

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