Or they just let the mucus hang like little “nose-cicles.”
After not that much hunting, it materialized in our junk drawer, with my full name and that of my 2nd grade teacher’s written on the bottom with ball-point ink. Evidently, my mother didn't see a reason to throw it out either. I'm thinking of hosting a “World’s Oldest Pink Eraser” contest because I think I can win with the one in my Dad’s old desk from 1945.
A pink eraser will outlast us all. Fossilized erasers will puzzle future archaeologists, who will scratch their heads and wonder why the odd-shaped vulcanized rubber, if a tool as they supposed, showed no sign of wear. "Is it a body part?" they'll theorize, "or maybe animal droppings?"
In the store recently and saw a 5-pack of pink erasers. You can imagine the rant I had upon this sighting. I see this as a blatent effort on the part of the manufacturer to unload inventory on frenzied, oblivious parents.
But they were an outstanding deal.