I hold a religious pamphlet in my hand. The churchgoer who gave it to me explained the painting printed on it: it is Paradise. A clear river weaves between the bright green trees and foliage. People of all cultures live together in harmony, everyone dressed in their traditional garb. The wild animals, too, are tame. A little girl wraps her arms around a lion. A father shows his son how to properly feed cherries to a bear.

God, it’s so commercial.

I am an artist of the cutting edge. I break boundaries like minorities break dance. My version would expose the reality of their perfect world in which all living things coexist peacefully. A little boy giggles as vegetarian maggots squirm all over his body. A mother shares lunch with her daughter while spiders casually spin webs on their faces. And without predators, the sky fills up with birds, sparrows and eagles alike, from which an ivory poop torrent floods the land. The multicultural families laugh heartily as each one of them is drenched in bird feces. In a realm as sterile as this, this is the most hilarious dirty joke ever.

Except it isn’t even that dirty. The feces are actually a beauty elixir, instantly curing everyone of acne and general ugliness. Physical pain is also gone. E.T. floats in the background, ready to heal anyone with his outstretched finger.

I know not everyone can accept this vision of Paradise, but true art has always been slow to acceptance. When Gustave Eiffel built his tower, did he not face criticism from the masses? When Picasso entered his Cubist period, did fathers everywhere not claim their sons could paint this crap?

Mark my words, ladies and gentlemen: one day, the world will come to appreciate my view. And you, too, will go, “How did I not see this? Of course Paradise is one big, happy shit fest.”