Art School

Art schools aren't something I'd look into most of the time. I mean, I'm a good artist. Good? I'm fantastico, as the King of Spain told me at my last birthday party. His exact words were, "¡Tomador del Quid, lavamos las manos antes comemos! ¡Ahora!" Then he took me out on the town, and we went down to the art district where I got him a dozen Picassos because he looked so depressed, being a mere prince. Yes, this was before he became the full-fledged King of Spain. And what does a mere prince know of diplomacy, or chocolate chip cookies, or dog training?

Turns out, he knew a lot. We were in roommate back in college, the King and I. Both of us were art majors, but he wasn't into it, really. He more or less went with the flow, unable to sit still for five minutes and plan out a roadmap to his future along the highway of scheduling. I should know, I was the school's registrar, and I couldn't talk to the man for five minutes about the difference between a mouse and a squirrel, let alone the number of classes and credits he needed to graduate within his lifetime. Every time I approached him and his friends, they threw soda and potatoes at me. Don't ask me where they got potatoes. I'm not from Idaho, I have no idea how potatoes grow. Why don't you ask Colonel Chickenpox?

Colonel Chickenpox is one of my oldest friends. The two of us really showed the government a thing or two when we refused to pay those lumber tariffs before importing lumber from Canada. Softwood, or so they say. But we really did need that lumber. The Colonel is an American hero, so why should he be forced to pay unreasonable tariffs like the average Joe Thousandaire? I mean, just look at Chickenpox's record. He's been melted on five separate occasions, and each time he comes back angrier and more patriotic than ever. Why, the last time he unmelted, he returned to life with not one, but two dollars. That's why he needs lumber, I think. It keeps him from remelting. The man is like Chuck Norris.