View source for Paperclips and Paperclip Collections

==Overview==
Paperclips come in all shapes and sizes. 

==Induvidual Artifacts==
*[[Hand Crafted ACCO Paper Clip and Relevant History]], from Benjamin Kroll. 


[[category:Paperclips and Paperclip Collections]]

==Detailed History of Benjamin Kroll's Paper Clip==


Dear Sir or Madam


It is with great pride that I find my most prized and trusted paper clip being obtained by an institution such as yours.  For nearly an entire score, this paper clip has figuratively bonded the woven tapestry of my life while at the same time physically bonding the papers that legitimize it.  It is no easy task separating myself from this clerical clip which has filled my present day with magical metallic memories.  And when I write my memoirs, it will be filled with anecdotes and tales of metallurgic mischief.

In regards to the history of this particular clip, there is little known about the early months of its life.  While much time has been spent attempting to locate this clip's birth box, we have only been able to ascertain that it came from a box of Acco Company gem paper clips in October or November of 1992.  The first owner that can be traced is a Mr. Johnson Westinghousen of South Cherub Lane in Middlesex, New Jersey.  Mr. Westinghousen was a proprietor of fine plastic shrubbery with an emphasis in rare plastic plant species.  To the best of our knowledge, Mr. Westinghousen used this paper clip to bind invoices processed in his West Middlesex office.  Unfortunately, Mr. Westinghousen met an unfortunate end when a malfunctioning office shredder begain eating his tie and didn't stop until it was halfway through his aorta.  The resulting lawsuit provided Mr. Westinghousens kin with ample cash reserves and the paper clip was transferred as part of an estate sale.  This can be confirmed through an inventory of the office which included (documentation is available) "2 paper clips, one bent beyond recognizable clip condition".  This portion of the estate was transferred to Del Dugan's Proper Pig Farm in New Orleans, LA..  Mr. Dugan's dream, among other things, was to raise pigs in a "respectable" manner.  He forbade his swine from frolicking in mud and dirt and dressed them up in ribbons and bows, parading them around his farm, proud of their cleanliness.  It wasn’t until 1999, during the Great Pig Revolts of Lapardeux Parrish that Mr. Dugan found use for the paper clip.  During the Armistice that preceded the last Great Pig Revolt, Mr. Dugan used the paper clip to bind the papers that offered his formal surrender.  Sent to the Great Pig Revolt leader, General Kosher, the surrender never actually made it to its destination.  The papers were processed at a USPS processing facility outside of New Orleans and due to insufficient postage, was not sent on to its destination.  And due to insufficient work ethic, the USPS processors simply tossed it into an unmarked bin, where it likely sat for 18-24 months.  When the facility was shuddered in a round of branch closings in 2002, my own uncle Herbert, a senseless man in his mid 60s and retired postal worker came across the Del Dugan’s surrender papers.  And by senseless, I mean literally, Uncle Herb had no sense of touch, smell, sight, taste or hearing.  He was however, extremely psychic, having acquired a sixth sense, or for poor Uncle Herb, a first sense.  When Uncle Herb realized what was in the package, and understood that these documents could have averted the Last Great Pig Revolt, he called a lawyer, me.  Having no knowledge of pig revolts and severely annoyed with Uncle Herb’s constant stammering, I told (through ESP) Uncle Herb to send me the papers.  When I received them, there seemed nothing unusual about them.  It was your standard surrender and armistice agreement, legally binding, all required signatures.  But something caught my attention.  Arnold Schwarzenegger had just been elected as Governor of California.  After I watched the news special, I turned back to the surrender agreement.  I realized then that the papers weren’t stapled.  Yet they held together firmly, as if pressed together with two sturdy fingers, rigid, complex.  The source of this adhesion was a simple, metallic, dark grey paper clip.  I thumbed it, tracing the lines, noticing the course braided ridges that made the symmetrical loops.  Like an Escher painting, the lines seemed to go on forever, yet remained compact, elegant.  It was the most beautiful moment of my life.  I sat transfixed, unable to move or think, focused solely on the curving wire as it looped around, and around again.  One more time, the loops seeming endless.  I was struck by the sudden thought that the papers it held together were not good enough.  This paper clip should be binding some great historical document, holding the pages of the Magna Cart together or the Constitution of the United States.  I ripped the papers from the clutches of the clip and destroyed them.   I placed the paper clip on a pillow in my bed.  That was the first night I slept with it.  It wouldn’t be the last.  Weeks passed, then months and then years.  My dog died and the paper clip was there to console me, silently binding.  My wife wanted a divorce and I didn’t know what to say, except that she couldn’t have the dog, or the paper clip.  Actually she could have the dog.  I began to withdraw from my peers and from my work.  I sat at home, wrapped in a snuggie, staring at the paper clip, dreaming of a life together I knew we could never have.  They came for my home.  And when I sat on the curb outside of Office Max, I realized we were destroying each other.  I marched into Office Max and demanded, with my most authoritative voice, their most prestigious paper clip.  When I was released from the county lock up 3 days later, not only was I sober but I was actually feeling fairly well.  I returned to Office Max and bought a box of brand new Acco paper clips.  Outside, I dumped the box on the ground and reached for the one.  The new one.  The one that would not replace, but would redefine. I walked home quietly.  It was time to say goodbye to an old friend.

Benjamin Kroll