Let’s take a look at this painting from the third floor computer lab. It is, at best, processed garbage, and at worst, unprocessed garbage.

It consists of a chromatid (that’s half of a chromosome, for those of you who failed Bio), the letter T, and a variety of misshapen graham crackers. I have to stare at this forsaken “painting” every single Tues-day for two hours, and all it does is make me believe even less in the concept of an art degree. Half of it consists of a pink smear and the other half is discombobulated shapes that are supposed to make you “feel something” but really just pisses you off since your third grade art teacher told you that you had no talent. To put it simply, it looks like someone drove over the painting with snow tires.

If I were judging based on Comfort Inn art standards, this would make Leonardo da Vinci drink some bleach because he could never top it. But this is an educational institution that is supposed to inspire children, so this “painting” is a certified desecration. I don’t care if “Napkin” comes for me; I’m speaking out for human rights.

Hey, do you like Venus fly traps? Do you like making your eyes bleed? This painting gives you both of these things together like a caloric two-for-one Wendy’s special, and makes you hate yourself. It has promiscuous lips (What are they implying? Little minx). It’s got a hand that is stealing the classic Italian hand gesture (that isn’t your culture sweetie!). It’s got a foot (sometimes paintings need to be kink-shamed). Most importantly, it’s a plant and plants don’t have any of these things! Cabbage Patch Kids can have hands and mouths, but not this nightmare. I don’t make the rules on what’s a health code violation, I just follow them.

Two birds pooped on a canvas after eating some Cheetos, and now it’s art! You can’t create an artistic rendering of the uterus, done exclusively in the color swamp-ass green (calm your dirty mind, I mean a wetland donkey), and expect me to be in awe. However, I will give the artist props for distastefully blending every bodily fluid together. If I had to sit in this classroom and stare at it for the entire school year, I would voluntarily go color-blind. I wish that I had more roasts to provide, but this painting would have to actually provide material to do that.

All jokes aside, this artwork stirs something deep inside of me that hasn’t been stirred since I saw Magic Mike. A bottomless pit of interpretations can be unearthed from the sophisticated collage that adorns our halls. The patient, precise skill it must have taken to take a fragment of a picture and move it two inches upwards is reminiscent of Seurat placing the last dot on A Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grand Jatte. Frankly, this masterpiece has probably turned more people towards Jesus than your grandma ever could. We salute, you, Böök.