Yesterday I ruminated on brass knuckles.
I had to slap myself and scream "Snap out of it!" like Cher and Nic Cage in Moonstruck, when brass knuckles led to brass monkey’s balls, which then led to witch’s tits.
C’mon, it’s cold here... and it’s Halloween.
Weird, right? The brass knuckles thought bubble stemmed from a desire to describe a particular agony. If I used idioms like “a ton of bricks” or “hit by a bus,” you’d know what I meant, but I like to avoid cliches when possible.
I was about 12 years old the one and only time I held a set of brass knuckles. They were high atop my parents’ chest-on-chest dresser. Lest you imagine my dad was a mobster or a G-man, this is the memory I conjured while musing about brass knuckles:
The brass knuckles were a prop. I remember handling them and my two brothers must have, as well. They were heavy and cold and exhilarating. Knowing my dad, who was a pacifist/anti-nuke kind of guy, he probably delivered an impassioned lecture on how the “knucks” were dangerous – even deadly – we were never to play with them… that violence was not the answer. It would have been very reverential.