Art is Fart.

This morning, I dropped in early at the UICA's Holiday Artists' Market to shop for those most difficult on my list. I hoped to find at least something for my Dad: a man who needs nothing and wishes, hopelessly, for less.

I felt quite lucky when I found just it. I made my purchase, hopped a few blocks over to my dance studio for Saturday class, and, directly after, rushed home to get quickly changed to drive to Jackson for a family gathering.

But first, I had to demonstrate to Ben my fabulous find. I set it on my office chair, sat on it, and...nothing.

Shit, I don't have time for this, I thought. Regardless, I dug out the business card from inside the bag and made a call:

Ryan: Hello?

Me: Um, yes, hi. Is this Ryan?

Ryan: Yes, yes it is. 

Me: OK, good. Um, hi, I was at the market earlier today, and I bought a pillow from you. And, well, the thing is, it doesn't fart. 

Ryan: Oh, well that's not good. Did you use the straw to blow it up?

Me: I didn't get a straw. 

Ryan: Hmm, what color is your pillow?

Me: It's blue.

Ryan: Ah, I see. Well, it seems you bought the standard version. Only the deluxe versions are fitted with a whoopie cushion.

Me: Oh. OK. I'll be right over. Can you make an exchange?

Because a pillow with a farting butt on it is just a pillow if it doesn't fart, right?