It was a dark and stormy night when Jacob reluctantly took his son, Randle, to the art exhibition.
Jacob wasn’t much into modern art. “I don’t know much about art,” he said, “but I know what I like, and I tell you, modern art’s crap.”
It had been a tough road to hoe for Randle to put himself through Art School. Even though he was rich, his father had refused to pay for any of the art tuition. “It’s bad enough having a son who’s a woofter,” he said, “without having to pay for him to do a faggety thing like paint.”
This was Randle’s second exhibition of his paintings. When they arrived, his father needed to visit the bathroom, so he came inside. When he saw Randle’s paintings he couldn’t believe it.
“What utter crap,” he said loudly. “Look at all these stupid squiggles. An imbecilic nun with a class of two year olds could’ve done better.”
Jacob visited the bathroom. When he returned, he saw Randle talking to a man. “One of your woofter friends?” asked Jacob derisively.
“No,” said Randle. “He just bought this painting here for fifty thousand.”
Suddenly, Jacob developed a love for modern art.