Poor, stick straight pencils.
Where once they were doomed to have their nubby points spun off into twirly shavings, now they are what? And where? That’s right. They are nowhere and nothing.
Pencils alone carry the earthy smell of lead and wood. Real pencils are singularly capable of filling a sharpener with enough shavings to throw at your brother’s head. And it is pencils, and only pencils, dear readers, that can have their rubbery metal necks chewed hard until they accidentally astonish a filling into shocking it’s bearer, or snapped in half during biology class if the boredom of mitochondria is just too, too much to bear. And lest we forget, they are also excellent poking devices.
We can nearly say that pencils have gone the way of the dodo, but nay, it is so much worse than mere extinction. If the dodo or Giant Squealing Squid or Honest Philanderer or any other extinct beast were to be crammed into a flimsy plastic casing and called “Mechanical” and thus entombed in glaring rows of hostile plastic at Home Depot, why then yes. They could complain.
But as it is, only the Ancient Ones (over 35) will die remembering the humble and pointy pencil species, much less the rickety sharpener seen as such a technological advancement in its day.
Blame this sorry state on Uncle Bic, and about the demise of the pointy, writey, pokey, lead-filled wonder that was pencils, well, weep until you can weep no more.