"Why are you talking about Reggie?"
Mom was taking a tour of my new apartment. We were in the courtyard by the fountain. Young boys were throwing grapes in our general direction. I told them to stop it.
"I was just telling you about the library art show coming up, and how excited everyone is about it. And by everyone, I mean, no one. Well, except Reggie. It seems he wants to get in this year by fraud."
"Is this your bathroom? It's not very big, is it?"
"Reggie apparently bought an oil painting at a garage sale of a wedding, and he wants to enter it as his own. My sources tell me that there's no way he painted it since it's too detailed and no one is depicted as having an orgasm."
Mom turned down a hallway. "What is this room for?"
"That's the den. See, it's an octagon to represent all the facets of Reggie--all of them sexual."
"There's a nice view, and-- Auuwwk!"
"Oh, Greg, did you do this?"
"Yes, that's my latest painting. Pretty great, huh."
Mom stood before the easel, shaking her head.
"It's called 'O, Canada!' after Reggie. It's based on a Boris Vallejo, one of Reggie's heroes. And, see, we're both Sagittariuses, so there's that too. Reggie used to say we were similar because we were the typical centaur guy out there shooting our arrows of love."
Mom kept shaking her head.
I pointed. "And those are my abs. Lock and load, I always say."
"Awful. Just awful."
"See, the painting asks that fundamental question: when is a painting too sexy?"
"You're not going to keep it here, are you?"
"It's going in the library art show. And then... on to Paris!!"
"Good! Because I never want to see it again!!"
As Picasso once said, it ain't Art unless it offends your mama. The End.