Gary unrolled the canvas, flexed his fingers, and declared, “Today, I am a visionary.” His plan? A collage of discarded socks, expired cheese, and a half-eaten donut. He smeared glue like a madman, unaware the bottle had expired in 2018.
“This is art!” he yelled, as the glue oozed like molten tar. The sock army marched across the canvas, only to stick to his beard. Gary tugged—his eyebrows now resembled a confused seagull.
Mrs. Puddleworth, his neighbor, peered through the window. “Is that… a donut?”
“It’s a statement!” Gary hissed, swatting a rogue noodle. The glue had fused his sneakers to the floor.
He tried to salvage things by adding glitter. The bottle was empty. “No!” he cried, shaking it. A cloud of dust erupted, coating his face in DIY despair.
By sunset, the canvas featured a donut, a fusty sock, and Gary’s left eyebrow. Mrs. Puddleworth scribbled a note: “Call 911. Your ‘art’ is melting.”
Gary stared at his masterpiece. “They’ll call me… the Picasso of regret.”
The next day, a gallery called. “We want to display your work!”
“Really?”
“It’s… unique.”
Gary paused. “Tell them it’s called ‘The Taste of Failure.’”
