Humor
I am a Six-Year-Old Boy, and I’m Getting the Feeling My Parents Are Making Fun of My Art
Of course I didn’t know my tower looked like an erection
I’m on to you two. I saw that sideway glance, Mom. And don’t think I didn’t see that raised eyebrow response, Dad. I’m not an idiot.
So what if the house I drew was slanted? I’m not a friggin architect. Yet.
Tell me more about this, Jake-y. Oh, don’t play coy — you know it’s a damn house, Mom! There’s no need to subtly force me into explaining my artwork so you won’t guess wrong. For future reference, if you can’t tell whether my drawing is a caterpillar, corn dog, or a luxury cruise liner, just pick one and risk me correcting you. Don’t go through this whole charade of saying you like the colors and shapes while I can clearly see you two nudging at each other for help deciphering my style of expression.
I love the way you used the whole piece of paper, Jake. Really, Dad? That means jack shit to me if later on in the kitchen you jokingly tell Mom to make a doctors appointment for the corn dog who’s apparently “suffering from chicken pox.” Wow, good one! SOOO FUNNY! Please forgive my adolescence for not understanding that ketchup should be depicted in a long squiggly line instead of small, haphazard dots. Keep in mind, my fingers have the same size and strength of the hard macaroni noodles we use in art class!
For the record, Mom: I heard you and Dad whispering in the hallway about my Christmas landscape. There’s absolutely no reason you two need to stop and discuss anything in the hallway… ever. You’re not politicians, you’re neglectful parents.
More like Sloshy the Snowman. What the hell, Mom!? I’m so sorry my version of Frosty featured ill-shaped snowballs and looks like my drunk uncle Frank. May I remind you, I’M SIX!
Furthermore, I apologize from the bottom of my heart for drawing that phallic-shaped church. Did you think I would know that a less-precise triangle roof would result in the likings of a penis head? Do you not get that my life context is limited; that I wouldn’t know my tower looks exactly like an erection? Well, I do now, ‘cause I could hear you two doing your Abbott and Costello routine about asking forgiveness from God for his house of holy blow jobs.
Yes I am upset, but I realize later on you two will thank me, for my seemingly small contributions to this household provide light-hearted relief to our morbid homestead. Some colorful classics of mine that’ve brightened our chosen prison include “One-Eyed Jelly Bean Blob Tries LSD,” “Schoolhouse or Burning Asylum,” and “Threesome Clowns on a Sinking Motorboat.” And if you think for one minute I’m going to suddenly gain exceptional motor skills to help alleviate my artistic deficiencies, you’re sorely mistaken.
And if it weren’t for my “rudimentary” style — for which my extensive enthusiasm lends further into your comedic setup — you might not have anything else to hold on to your flailing marriage. Why else would I be drawing so much, if not as a coping mechanism to deal with my drastic realization of your domestic enmeshment?
In my next drawing, Mom, you will possess two sad dashes for feet, and Dad, you will have a grotesquely unproportional beard that you’ll mistake for a pizza. And upon that moment when you both stifle your laughs and rail on about your offspring’s non-talents, I will vow to keep on drawing; to keep on creating; to keep on making art that is mightier than your disgust.
