So I just bought my sister’s Christmas present. It’s a painting, created by putting a turtle on a canvas and letting him walk/slide around in all the paint. I am chortling to myself all over again as I type this. I am the best sister EVAH. Kudos will be mine. YOU CAN’T TOUCH THIS. (da da-da da …)
Admittedly, it makes a bit more sense when you realise my sister had a turtle for about 10 years. He’s now at a nice turtle sanctuary in a huge pond on a farm, lest you think we ate him or something. He was a little shit, that turtle. He never liked being inside his tank; and it was a really big tank, with a nice rock for basking and everything. My sister cleaned that fucking tank religiously, too. Ungrateful turtle brat. He liked to be out and roaming around the house. Unfortunately my parents’ Persian rug-type thing on the lounge floor was in shades of green and cream, and guess what colours a turtle is? So, over the years, many people (my dad mostly) would stand on the turtle, who would whip his head back inside his shell and hiss, like it wasn’t his OWN FAULT he got stood on, and my sister would wail and run to the turtle, and my dad would wretchedly protest his innocence and insist the turtle had chameleon-like powers. Which he did. He would also go behind the TV and crap. Horrible reptile. Maybe we SHOULD have eaten him.