I Like My Pencils Like My Women - Refillable and in Assorted Barrel Colors!
Written: Aug 05 '03 (Updated Jul 04 '06)
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Product Rating:
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Pros: Pentel EZ #2 pencils divert homicidal urges.
Cons: Pepper spray hurts.
The Bottom Line: Don’t ever take your freedom for granted. Walk proudly through your local Safeway store. Disdain red meat. Beware the ghouls. Buy a chihuahua. Reject medical science.
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| Sordid-1's Full Review: Pentel EZ#2 Automatic Pencil .7mm Lead Refillable ... |
NOTE: Please be forewarned that this review has not reached the pinnacle of consumer helpfulosity and its content has been deemed merely 'somewhat helpful' by Epinions' resident mechanical pencil experts. Cadillac emptor!
Once again, ennui had set in, creeping up on me like a large, creepy, ennuiatic thing, and dispersed its little tendrils of vague discontent in a thousand different directions. This time, however, rather than shooting them straight up my nose, the vast majority of the ennui-tendrils made a beeline straight for my buttocks.
I viciously swatted at them with an axe handle, as I clenched my cheeks tightly together in a Mongolian death grip.
Life had conspired against me. The various forces, both physical and ethereal, had banded together in a contrived effort to deny me any niblet of pleasure, any crumb of satisfaction, any teensy-tiny molecule of happiness or contentment. And, worse than that, my lifetime ban from Safeway stores was still in full effect.
I needed release, a catharsis of sorts, to cleanse my mind of the parasites and ghouls that were feeding upon it. The sort of release one could not find from gorging on potato salad, stalking deli girls, blasting frozen turkeys in a supermarket with a shotgun, loitering near real estate seminars, paying $20 to the transvestites down at 42nd Street for “special favors”, and certainly not from eating the little blue pills. I’d tried all those things, and the pleasure was fleeting (though I’d picked up some great real estate tips!)
It was then that I remembered the sage words of Ivy League prof and author, Paul Fussell: “If I didn’t have writing, I’d be running down the street hurling grenades in people’s faces.” Fussell is a menacing fellow; a burly, craggy, hairy behemoth of a man. He looks primitive, almost Cro-Magnon, and certainly prone to violence. If writing can provide a man such as Fussell with a release capable of waylaying violence, then certainly it could aid me, a kind, gentle soul, in resisting the omnipresent voices in my head, the ones that tell me to do, you know, bad things.
Sure, I did have that crate of Korean War surplus hand grenades stashed in my crawlspace, and frequently loitered in the Safeway parking lot while simultaneously pulling the pin and contemplating flinging one into the front entranceway. But the pacifist in me always prevailed (plus I can’t be sure that such a small object would trip the electric eye, and, dammit, I’m not going to waste a perfectly good hand grenade, no matter what the Pod People whisper in my ear.)
I was always looking for answers, for liberation from an oppressive system that strived to keep righteous men from frequenting Safeway stores as punishment for a failure to conform, and Fussell may have provided me with just such an answer: Writing. If I could just capture my thoughts and record them, keeping them captive for posterity’s sake, maybe someday, somewhere, somehow, someone would discover them and understand them, and, by extension, understand me. Maybe I could understand myself.
I wanted my thoughts to live. I already knew my body was immortal, as I had drank the blood of a freshly killed turkey thereby absorbing its life force. But what good is immortality if the essence of your being is shackled inside you, prevented from sharing its secrets with your fellow man, obstructed from bursting forth and spreading its lemony-fresh goodness to the world at large? Not very darn good, that’s how good. I would smear my soul on the page, I would reveal my inner parts to the world, I would share my mojo – and the world would taste of it and be enlightened.
It was then that I realized that I owned nary a writing utensil. Curses! Should I write my memoirs in my own blood? Should I smear snot, Twizzler spit, and various bodily fluids onto the page in an effort to communicate? Should I just give up and watch some more Judge Judy? Faced with this seemingly insurmountable obstacle, my resolve wavered. Then, in a near epiphany, the answer struck me. Go forth and buy pencils!
Clearly, a return trip to Safeway would be necessary – despite the obvious dangers. My chihuahua, Mr. Jingles, gazed up at me fretfully, his eyes welled up in pools of canine concern. I patted him on the head and fed him a sedative-laden Boca Burger. Nighty night, Mr. Jingles!
As I coasted into the Safeway parking lot, that familiar sense of panic intermingled with wild-eyed excitement surged through my body. I readied my disguise, my meticulous scheming and well-laid plan nearing the apex of its cunning conception.
Realizing that nearly every Safeway market in the nation had warning posters with my picture hung in prominent positions, and that my appearance had traditionally struck fear into the hearts of even the most docile bagboys and checkout clerks, I knew subterfuge was necessary. I knew that it was imperative that I hid my identity and made myself as inconspicuous and non-descript as possible. And I was prepared.
I yanked the ski mask over my head and adjusted it, sweat dripping from my brow in the heat of the August sun, immediately prior to entering the glorious wonderland of consumer goodness.
Without hesitation, almost as if on cue, the Safeway denizens – shoppers and employees alike – dove for cover, and ran about all willy-nilly, arms flailing to and fro. I could never understand why I elicited such a reaction. This time I wasn’t even carrying a shotgun.
I strode purposefully toward the school supply section – past the canned sardines, past the industrial sized containers of black olives, yes, even past the rows and rows of neatly stacked Tampax tampons. And then my goal was in sight, scads and scads (and scads!) of writing utensils – displayed in a multitude of sizes, shapes, and representing nearly every color in the spectrum (except “burnt umber”, that would just be wrong.)
But which to choose? With such a wide array of writing instruments, how would I know which one was right for me? If only I had done my research. If only somewhere there was a stockpile of consumerly helpful information geared toward providing me with the requisite data to make EVEN BETTER writing utensil purchasing decisions. Alas, I knew of no such place.
This was no lightweight decision. This pencil, whichever I chose, would be the vessel which carried the most weighty matters of my inner soul onto the pages of my memoirs. What if I chose a shoddy model? Would the transference prove too steep a job for it? Would the substantial content of my soul clog the vessel, leaving it trapped in pencil Gehenna for all eternity? I was perplexed.
Then the hand of divine providence guided me, and, with an otherworldly nudge, I was drawn to a ten-pack of Pentel EZ #2 automatic pencils. These were pencils worthy of carrying my message to the world! Not only was their automated operation specifically designed to allow me the simplicity and ease of application that would enable my work to flow, unimpeded, without hindrance, but they were also refillable! And, as previously mentioned, there were ten of them! That was one for every day of the week including a spare pencil for leap years!
Best of all, they came in assorted barrel colors!
I started cackling with glee, a sense of warmth and joy overwhelming my senses and providing me with such inner strength that the ever-screaming voices within my head were diminished to a dull murmur, nearly vanquished, nearly extirpated, nearly bitch-slapped into submission.
“rubble rubble, murmur murmur, kluhr-TANG, kluhr-TANG,” whispered the dying voices.
I smirked as only a Pentel pencil-wielder can smirk.
But what of its strength? Its endurance? What were the offensive capabilities of these finely crafted pencils? I knew they must be tested. Gripping my 10-pak of resplendent writing apparatuses tightly, I jogged down the aisle, looking for a suitable test subject.
A bespectacled, middle-aged lady in a colorful, pastel, floral print dress cowered on the ground before me, whimpering and making strange, farting noises. I greeted her warmly and continued onward.
Then I saw him. Mr. Big Shot Tour de France Guy himself, Lance Armstrong, gazing condescendingly at me from the front of the Wheaties box he so smarmily adorned. Hatred burned from his glowing, vacuous eyes, and his gloating glares gouged at my gentle soul, implying inferiority and transmitting terror. With a quick, accurate swipe, I unleashed a backhanded cross cut that nearly severed his cardboard torso from his cereal trunk.
I knew at that moment that the pen is, indeed, mightier than the sword. And that Pentel EZ#2 .7mm lead refillable automatic pencils in assorted barrel colors (10-pk) are far more fearsome than a Howitzer.
Power surged through me, and I stripped naked in the grocery store aisle, lofting the marvelous Pentel writing instrument over my head in a double-handed grip. Strange, gutteral voices surged from my mouth of their own volition, speaking powerful, shrill words of invocation (almost certainly in the tongue of Cthulu.)
Then, just as the forces swirled about me and I was certain lightning or some other tremendous natural force would shoot forth from my super-nifty Pentel pencil, I was struck from behind and knocked to the ground, the grocery store tiles feeling particularly cold on my now-exposed genitals.
Dammit, it was the SWAT team. Again. They never failed to curtail me from my greater glory and stand as an obstacle separating me from my fantastic aspirations. And they were real dicks about it, too.
SWWWWWWWWWWOISSHHHHH!
Oh great, another blast of pepper spray directly into my eyes – how cliché! I started to see the appeal of libertarian sentiment and their calls for less government (and, by extension, less SWAT teams) in the lives of the American citizenry. Blinded by the debilitating pepper spray eyewash, and writhing in an intense, all-encompassing world of pain, I wondered how many other innocent shoppers had been so brutalized in Safeway stores across the nation. I determined, then and there, that I would write my congressman about this immediate peril to the freedom and well-being of all decent people – assuming I could ever again get my hands on one of those wonderful Pentel writing mechanisms.
I highly recommend the Pentel EZ#2 automatic pencil .7mm lead refillable assorted barrel colors 10 pack. They work even better if you hide your anti-psyche meds under your tongue and then spit them out when the nurses aren’t looking.
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For futher expositions on my thrilling adventures at Safeway, read these (and beware the Pod People):
TGWO: The Potato Salad Diaries
Shhhhhh! Be vewy, vewy qwiet... I'm hunting tuwkeys!
Recommended:
Yes
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Sordid-1
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Member: Jeffy
Reviews written: 62
Trusted by: 418 members
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You wouldn't notice a muddy elephant in the snow, would ya?
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