David Attenborough: This Ticonderoga #2 pencil has seen better days. Watch as the student draws it from its pencil case for the current task at hand: a two-hour written exam.
The Final Scribble: The Life and Death of Petey the Pencil
[Scene opens on a stark, fluorescent-lit examination hall. Rows of anxious students bend over their desks, scribbling with quiet intensity. The sound of pencil lead scratching against paper fills the air.]
DAVID ATTENBOROUGH (V.O.):
In the unforgiving environment of the university testing chamber, a silent struggle unfolds. Here, tools of intellect are pushed to their limits—not just the minds of students, but their humble, graphite-bearing companions.
[Camera pans to a close-up of a yellow No. 2 pencil. His paint is chipped, his eraser nearly gone. We meet our subject.]
DAVID ATTENBOROUGH (V.O.):
This is Petey. Graphitus scribblum, affectionately named “Petey” by his human, an undergraduate in Anthropology 201.
[Cut to Petey being lifted shakily by a caffeine-twitching hand.]
DAVID ATTENBOROUGH (V.O.):
For many semesters, Petey has lived a noble life: lecture notes, marginal doodles, perhaps the occasional crossword. But today… today he faces his final trial.
[The student begins writing furiously. Petey dances across the page in a flurry of facts, formulas, and half-remembered concepts about Neanderthal toolkits.]
DAVID ATTENBOROUGH (V.O.):
Watch as he glides with precision—his graphite core converting thought into text at astonishing speeds. But each word comes at a cost.
[The camera slowly zooms in: Petey is visibly shorter now. The student presses harder as stress mounts.]
DAVID ATTENBOROUGH (V.O.):
Each line drains him. Once a full-grown pencil, proud and unsharpened, Petey is now a shadow of his former self—barely three inches in length. And yet, he persists.
[Petey is lifted again. This time, his wood groans faintly. He scribbles half of a sentence. Then… a snap.]
DAVID ATTENBOROUGH (V.O.):
Ah. Tragedy. A critical fracture at the midpoint. His brittle frame can bear no more. The graphite, worn thin, gives way under pressure.
[The student stares at the broken pencil in disbelief. A panicked shuffle for a backup ensues.]
DAVID ATTENBOROUGH (V.O.):
And just like that, Petey’s journey comes to an end. Not with fanfare, nor a ceremonious farewell—but with a quiet crack, unheard by all but one.
[Cut to Petey resting beside a used coffee cup and a heavily dog-eared exam booklet. His tip dulled, his spirit spent.]
DAVID ATTENBOROUGH (V.O.):
Yet, in his final moments, he gave all he had in service of knowledge. Few tools live with such dignity. Fewer still die in the act of creation.
And that’s just a pencil we’ve known for a second! Imagine following a seal pup for weeks before watching it die.
Imagine following the pencil for a whole school year, watching it get smaller and smaller as the arrow of time keeps marching forward evermore
David Attenborough: This Ticonderoga #2 pencil has seen better days. Watch as the student draws it from its pencil case for the current task at hand: a two-hour written exam.
No, not Petey the Pencil :( he won’t make a whole two hour exam!! Nooooo!!!
The Final Scribble: The Life and Death of Petey the Pencil
[Scene opens on a stark, fluorescent-lit examination hall. Rows of anxious students bend over their desks, scribbling with quiet intensity. The sound of pencil lead scratching against paper fills the air.]
DAVID ATTENBOROUGH (V.O.): In the unforgiving environment of the university testing chamber, a silent struggle unfolds. Here, tools of intellect are pushed to their limits—not just the minds of students, but their humble, graphite-bearing companions.
[Camera pans to a close-up of a yellow No. 2 pencil. His paint is chipped, his eraser nearly gone. We meet our subject.]
DAVID ATTENBOROUGH (V.O.): This is Petey. Graphitus scribblum, affectionately named “Petey” by his human, an undergraduate in Anthropology 201.
[Cut to Petey being lifted shakily by a caffeine-twitching hand.]
DAVID ATTENBOROUGH (V.O.): For many semesters, Petey has lived a noble life: lecture notes, marginal doodles, perhaps the occasional crossword. But today… today he faces his final trial.
[The student begins writing furiously. Petey dances across the page in a flurry of facts, formulas, and half-remembered concepts about Neanderthal toolkits.]
DAVID ATTENBOROUGH (V.O.): Watch as he glides with precision—his graphite core converting thought into text at astonishing speeds. But each word comes at a cost.
[The camera slowly zooms in: Petey is visibly shorter now. The student presses harder as stress mounts.]
DAVID ATTENBOROUGH (V.O.): Each line drains him. Once a full-grown pencil, proud and unsharpened, Petey is now a shadow of his former self—barely three inches in length. And yet, he persists.
[Petey is lifted again. This time, his wood groans faintly. He scribbles half of a sentence. Then… a snap.]
DAVID ATTENBOROUGH (V.O.): Ah. Tragedy. A critical fracture at the midpoint. His brittle frame can bear no more. The graphite, worn thin, gives way under pressure.
[The student stares at the broken pencil in disbelief. A panicked shuffle for a backup ensues.]
DAVID ATTENBOROUGH (V.O.): And just like that, Petey’s journey comes to an end. Not with fanfare, nor a ceremonious farewell—but with a quiet crack, unheard by all but one.
[Cut to Petey resting beside a used coffee cup and a heavily dog-eared exam booklet. His tip dulled, his spirit spent.]
DAVID ATTENBOROUGH (V.O.): Yet, in his final moments, he gave all he had in service of knowledge. Few tools live with such dignity. Fewer still die in the act of creation.
I don’t want to.
Don’t watch nature documentaries, then.
David Attenborough: “This is Snowball, a 4-week-old arctic hare”
[I pause the documentary]
Partner: “Babe, why’d you do that?”
Me: “Just getting some tissues.”
Partner: “Why? Look at the cute bunny!”
[Unpause]
David Attenborough: “This is Throat-shredder. She is the leader of her pack of starving arctic wolves.”
Partner: “Oh, no.”
Me: “Tissue?”
[Grisly killing noises from the TV]