The Red Paint Fiasco

Cats make great company and they can be really sweet sometimes, but they have a bad habit of getting dirty really quickly. I live in a dusty area, so whenever my cat goes out with smooth, clean fur, she returns with nasty, rough fur. In order to keep her fur smooth and silky, I try to give her a bath as often as I can. This means once a week, but since both of us suffer in the process, it ends up being once every two weeks.

The other day, the most highly unlikely event became likely: I gave my cat two baths in one day. The first took place at noon and under very normal circumstances. She was dirty and I happened to have a sponge. The second, however, should have been avoided.

It was evening and I was happily preparing to paint a Scarlet Macaw on an extra canvas I had lying around. I had just squeezed some bright, red paint onto my palette when my cat popped up behind me and decided to investigate.

I pulled her away the first time and tried to get the message across that the paint was not for her. She sulked away and I continued my preparations only to have her pop up again for some more investigations. This time she was quicker than me and she plunged her right paw into the paint.

I yelped and grabbed her legs, immediately alerting her that she was in deep trouble. We fought our first battle, with me trying to hold on to her front legs and her trying to pull away.

Eventually I won. I hoisted her up into my arms and examined her paw. Thankfully, it was the only paint-covered part of her body. I took her to my bathroom and turned on the sink to rinse off the paint before it stained too much. It was like the Zombie Apocalypse had just begun.

My cat hates seeing running water come out of the sink. This is most probably due to the fact that I often threaten her after she's done something nasty by turning on the sink full-blast and holding her very near to it.

She began to violently squirm, attempting to escape. I had to hold on to her with all my might. Things started getting ugly.

Instead of having paint only on her paw, she had gotten it all over her body as well as smeared some on my new, blue shirt. I'm sure anyone who would have walked in on us at that moment would have gotten a very wrong impression.

I was really angry about my shirt, so I rinsed as much paint as I could off of her and locked her in my parents' bathroom while I returned to my own bathroom and used soap to clean up my shirt. I then dressed myself in an older shirt and prepared for some raging combat.

I knew that the moment I opened my parents' bathroom door, she'd try to whiz past me, so I opened it a crack and squeezed in as fast as I could. I then grabbed her, found her sponge beside me, dunked it in soapy water, and began to scrub all her paint-covered fur like there was no tomorrow.

I rinsed her off.

I carried her to back to my bathroom, where I dried her up with an extra towel.

I sat on the floor, exhausted and wondering why on earth I didn't carry her out of my room the first time she tried to sniff the paint, while she sat behind the toilet and gave me death stares.

I released her from my room and watched her travel to a corner and commence to lick herself all over; a method of mockery she has adopted to show me that her baths will always surpass mine. We forgave each other soon afterwards and life went back to normal.

Keep this anecdote in mind the next time you sit down to paint a Scarlet Macaw.

Tomato

Tomato is sad. He is confused. He doesn't know where he belongs. He feels like his origin floats around in a cracked jar sealed tight by the rust of his past and future.
Tomato is lost.

His sanity is tainted by a question that haunts his dreams, his wishes, his hopes, his imagination. He feels debilitated by an unfair controversy; fruit or vegetable? He knows it shouldn't matter, but his life revolves around finding the answer. He sits under the stars at night and contemplates his purpose in life. He directs his questions at the brightest star in the sky. His soul will remain disturbed until the day he discovers his true identity. 

The vegetables are often taunting him, calling him a loser, defiling his reputation. They feed off of his misery like insatiable parasites, scavenging for every last drop of the juicy melancholy that forms the life of poor, unfortunate Tomato. They giggle at his clumsy instability. They guffaw at the squelches he makes when he walks.

They simply love to embarrass him.

Tomato's suffering is almost palatable. In fact, it is so eminent that the vegetables have developed a method for gathering his miserable vibes and converting their energy into a soft, creamy dip in which they like to swim every Saturday afternoon. The vegetables dive into his strife. They bathe in his suffering. 

They are mean.

Tomato is so desperate for companionship that he views the vegetables' abuse as a way of including him. He tells himself that the vegetables are swimming in a part of him; a part of his soul. They are becoming close to him.

He convinces himself that the vegetables appreciate him for who he is.

No matter how many times he reiterates these assumptions to himself, no matter how many times he tells himself that he is acknowledged fairly, doubts float around in his conscience like lily pads float in ponds, and he finds himself in a helpless, depressing stupor all over again.

These doubts mostly appear when Tomato encounters the worst vegetable of them all:

Baby Carrot.

Baby Carrot is small but extremely aggressive for his size. He has problems. Internal and external problems that fester inside him and burst when life becomes too harsh. He takes all his anger out on poor Tomato. 

He does this to look tough. He thinks it's cool. 

Baby Carrot is a bully. 

And to make matters worse, Tomato bruises easily.

Tomato tries to stay strong. He tries to keep his head above the water. He reminds himself that he has treasured values that not even Baby Carrot can take away. 

When life gets really tough, Tomato sheds a tear or two, but he makes sure to keep his candle of hope away from threatening breezes.

Tomato tells himself he isn't the only one. He tells himself that life's hardships are to be learned from. Soon, Tomato finds a kindred spirit. 

As they stare into each other's strange faces, Tomato and Eggplant realize that no matter what the problem is, it can always be conquered. They realize that life bestows its hardships on those it really appreciates.

They feel like they've known each other for a million years. 

They are friends.

The Dangers of Resizing the Oreo Cookie

Oreos are probably the most useful cookies to ever exist upon the face of the earth. Composed of two black, chocolaty circles sandwiching sweet, sugary-white cream, the Oreo has the power to exert a certain calming effect over any whiny child and to entice their inner ability to endure life and its difficulties.

  

But what if the Oreo were to undergo some minor change?

Let's assume that Nabisco decides to add a few inches onto the Oreo cookie. Of course, they'll probably think that by making the Oreo bigger, kids will have more cookie to enjoy, parents will enjoy the fact that their children are enjoying larger cookies, and Nabisco will enjoy a larger profit.

But, no. That's not the way it works.

Let us examine the important aspects of the present size of an Oreo cookie. By observing the general diameter of the opening of a drinking cup and comparing it to the diameter of an Oreo cookie, we can see that the Oreo and cup exist in perfect harmony.

This is what would happen if the Oreo was enlarged. 

And we all know what happens after that.

If we assume that Nabisco were to make the Oreo smaller, we can imagine a similar scenario.

Changing the present size of the Oreo will cause a widespread number of suicidal kids.

The World doesn't need that right now. 

Trust me.