Once upon a tooled leather desk surface there lived a quill and a bottle of ink.
“How dare you imply you are more indelible than I!” remarked the pen to the ink.
“Well, excuse me my fine feathered friend. But the truth is patently obvious. Without me you are nothing…a mere sharped tongued harridan with absolutely nothing to say!”
“Harridan! How dare you! Without me to give you meaning you would be nothing but what you are by nature…a directionless blot on the landscape. If I did not deign to besmirch myself then you would remain nothing but a filthy puddle. You should be grateful that I have anything to do with you at all!
“Just contemplating your dubious rhetoric absorbs all of my resources dearest Pen. You fail to appreciate that I will remain long after you are gone. People will admire me still, when you are but a broken reed. I will be the last word in fashion. Spare me your pointed remarks.”
“Without my points you would remain as you are…pointless. I give shape to ideas. I give confused thought clarity. In the right hands I can create beauty…something you are incapable off.”
This delightful conversation was brought to a full stop by the entrance of the owner of the house who sat down to write a letter. Both the pen and the bottle of ink readied themselves for action, the pen, sharpening herself up and the ink practically bubbling with excitement.
“Now…” mused the owner, reaching for the pen and ink. He took both up and unceremoniously tossed them directly into the bin.
“Thank God for modern technology!” he remarked taking out his first ballpoint pen.
And the querrelous quill and arrogant ink were never heard of again.