I used to draw when I was a small child. I drew mostly hot rods, gun fights and monsters. But one day it dawned on me, if I wanted too, I could draw boobs. Oh boy, I got pretty excited. Duh! Why didn’t I think of this before?
So I hid under the kitchen table with a stack off paper and my pencil. There was a great silence in the cosmos. Never had a vision of ones destiny been so clear. I bowed my head and the silence listened for the roar. “I will draw boobs!” shouted consciousness in its singular declaration of being.
And thus the master set off to collect his bounty. But oh what great darkness is this? Why dost the gods make me a butcher? I could not draw boobs! I could draw circles with dots in them. I could draw w’s with little eyes on them. I could draw a half circle with a raisin upon it. But none of these were boobs! Dejected, I stormed off in search of my bubble pipe. Oh cruel vale of tears…
As I stood on the veranda studying the horizon, the neighbor girl walked by. She was a bright eyed giggler full of inwoven springs and tight jostling things that made my mind weak. I could barely breathe. I knew right then I would spend the rest of life being a slave until I became the master, the master of boobs. I turned around and went right back inside, TO WORK!
and there was my mother. She was looking at my boob drawings. Oh shit. The noose hath slipped round my neck.
“Why are you practicing the alphabet?” she asked.
What? She doesn’t know, she thinks I…
“I just like letters?” I said.
“Oh - well, pick up your toys its time for supper.”
That was the moment that I learned incompetency can save your ass. And I thought, perhaps it better to master a different art form.
