Bobby had published a theatre play when he was only 17 years old, and it was widely regarded as one of the worst plays ever written in that part of the country. The plot was complex but yet boringly obvious. It would have lasted at least five hours, if there had been a theatre group reckless enough to perform it.
Bobby had paid for the publication himself, but the only copies that were ever sold, were ones he had smuggled onto the shelves of the local bookshop, where a few tourists by mistake bought some. (All copies were later returned, including one bought by an old lady who was almost blind. Her heirs found it in her library, covered in dust 15 years later. When they opened the book and realised the bad quality of the play, they promptly returned it. She had used it as door stop.)
When he turned 30, the local newspaper had a story about how lucky the town had been that Bobby had never since published anything. It then became a recurring theme to thank him for not publishing.
This weekend he turned 90 and the village council organised a party to celebrate and thank him for his long abstinence from any further production. As a sign of gratitude he got an eraser in gold.
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