Peter: Owww! He just put me in that grinder thing!

Paul: See, it is true. We do get shorter when we get older.

Peter: Well, at least I’m back in business. I was in that drawer doing nothing for the past year almost.

Paul: We’ve become an endangered species. We’re going by way of the dinosaur soon enough. There’s this Patrick the Pen next to me in this plastic cup. He makes fun of me. He says things like, “Hey Eraser Head. You getting bored again. What’s the point of you being in here with me, Get it? What’s the point? Ha! Ha! No need for you scratching any paper anytime soon. I’m the talk of the town now. My words flow with smooth black ink across the paper like they’re sliding on ice. I’m just perfectly beautiful. Oh, here we go! The boss pulled me out again. Time to go to work. Don’t wait up for me, Eraser Head!”

Peter: He can never call me that. My eraser fell off a month ago.

Paul: I told him he’ll be in the trash soon enough when his ink runs out. Going to go to pen purgatory where they all whine that they had to make the ultimate sacrifice for the good of the writer. One day they’re writing checks to pay bills and then without warning they just dry up, die, and aren’t worth a single penny.

Peter: Well, with the digital word, we’re all going to become useless, but I remember hearing stories about my ancestors. My great, great granddaddy was the favorite pencil for Little Miss Sally, a first grader in a one-room schoolhouse. She loved him. She would wrap her hand around him and when she wrote her imaginary stories, her tongue would stick out of the corner of her mouth. He would stop her when she made a mistake and she would flip him around and rub his head over the word and it magically disappeared. No pen could do that, my friend. They made some with erasers, but their heads cut right through the ink on the paper. Yep. My ol’ great, great granddaddy was a Hall of Fame General No. 2 from back in the 1860s!

Paul: I had a great uncle born in 2001, a Graf von Faber-Castell Perfect Pencil. He was a limited edition to celebrate the 240th year of the company. He was sold for over $7,000!

Peter: Well now, I heard about the Aurora Diamante. She was covered with 30 carat diamonds and flawless platinum with an 18 carat gold nib with rhodium coating. She’s one of a kind in the whole world. The barrel’s diamonds are arranged in such a way that light reflects off them from every angle. Aurora was sold for $1.47 million!

Paul: Geez. I came in a three pack with my brother and sister. We cost $1.99 at the Dollar Store. This angry kid in school got mad at what he wrote one day and the idiot snapped my brother right in half. My sister was given to a little girl who chewed her head off! I guess I’m the lucky one, just standing here in this stupid cup with a bunch of Paper Mate pens that mock me every single day.

Peter: They mock you every day?

Paul: Yup. I hear them say, ‘Whoa, here I go to work again, Eraser Head! Don’t worry. Maybe Ben Franklin or Abe Lincoln will come back to life and use you to put a period at the end of a sentence when their inkwell dries out. Ha! Ha! I hope that happens before your head gets dry rot and falls right off your stupid yellow wood!”

Peter: Don’t take them seriously. The next time the boss reaches for me, I’ll slide you over into his hand.

Paul: Do me no favors. I’m as useless as a clock with no numbers. I lost my point about three months ago and every time he tries to sharpen me, my point breaks again.

Peter: Oh, I feel bad for you. Hey, did you hear that sound? The boss just grunted and I think he threw Patrick the Pen in the trash. Must have run out of ink. Maybe he’ll come back and try you again.

Peter: No chance. Two Paper Mates are right next to you and then there’s you, too.

Paul: No pens here anymore! (Paul tips the cup. Out fall the pens to the floor.)

Peter: Oh, no! The boss won’t want me. I have no point! (Suddenly, a hand grabs both Peter and Paul. An hour passes and they are returned to the cup.)

Peter: (laughing) Well, that was fun. Looks like you and me got a new gig. I write down his profit numbers.

Paul: (laughing) And I erase his mistakes. Thank God he’s not very good at math.

Peter: You just made a good point.

Paul: Bad joke, my friend. Bad joke. (They both laugh.)

(The office cleaning lady returns the pens to the cup.

Peter: Time to clean house. (The office lady steps out of the room. He tips the cup and the pens fall into the wastebasket. She returns and dumps the basket into a large trash can.)

Peter: Now that’s where trash talking pens belong.

Paul: Yes, they do. In the trash!