Pope Julius II has offered me a commission to paint the Sistine Chapel ceiling. I say to him, "I'm a sculptor, not a painter, what's a matter you?" And Two-Sticks (I always call him Two-Sticks, he hates that. Ha-ha.) is all like, "Look, no big deal. A couple of rollers, a couple of gallons of antique white, you'll have it knocked out in a weekend." I say, "Why don't you get Leonardo, he's a painter, isn't he?" "He's busy," Two-Sticks says, "can't spare the time." Da Vinci has been working the last ten years on the same "masterpiece." A picture of a woman sitting in a chair. Says he can't get the expression right. Sometimes he has her sticking out her tongue, sometimes she has buck teeth, once she had a mustache. Still Leonardo is dissatisfied. Loser.
Ten Gallons Each: Red, Blue, Yellow, Black, White @ 20 lire a gallon......................................100 lire
One Half-Gallon Fuscia............................................................................................................10 lire
Brushes....................................................................................................................................40 lire
Drop cloths...............................................................................................................................30 lire
Mineral Spirits...........................................................................................................................20 lire
Painters Tape..............................................................................................................................5 lire
Beef Jerky...................................................................................................................................1 lire
Total.......................................................................................................................................
Leonardo came to inspect my progress today. He is so wise. A wise-ass that is, ha-ha! He was all like, "Don't forget to dot the eyes, Mikey." And "You missed a spot, Mikey." He knows I hate that name. So I said, "That's what your mama said last night." It didn't even make sense, but I had to say something. He makes me so mad. He said, "I'd like to stick around and watch you finish, but I've got to design a flying machine and paint a couple dozen or so more masterpieces. I'm nearly done with my Mona Lisa. She's going to be blowing out her lips like this, blb-blb-blb-blb," and he made a noise strumming his finger over his lips. I visualized it and knew it would be a masterpiece. Meanwhile I'm stuck here painting someone's ceiling. Tears filled my eyes, I was so jealous.
I told Two-Sticks it would take four years to finish this ceiling. Really it will only take three years, eleven months, thirty days, and twenty-two hours. This way, I still get paid for the whole thing and get some time off at the end to make a sandwich.
Life is no longer worth living. My one great work, and I have botched it. The centerpiece was to be "The Creation of Adam," God reaching down from the sky to shake hands with Adam. But I miscalculated the distance, and their hands don't even touch. Almost but not quite. Missed it by inches. Now the whole thing is ruined. I should have opened a pizzeria like Mama said.
