Feathers and the Ass.

Slowly he began to pluck the feathers out of his ass. One by one they had been put there, so one by one he removed them. He remembered each time a feather had been stuck up his ass. People meant it as a compliment but it always had made him feel uncomfortable, especially when he would try to sit down. At first a few feathers felt good in his ass, a boost to his artistic ego. That people had begun to appreciate all that he had been working at since he had been a teenager felt like a reward. It had taken him a long time to get a handle on his craft, so he didn’t mind. All of his heroes had achieved their own feathers later in life as well. So once the feathers started being stuck up his ass he felt like he had finally arrived. But like the story so often goes, after awhile his plume became plague by his own pomposity. He began to take all the feathers that had been stuck up his ass way too seriously. And well there is nothing more annoying in this world than an artist of any kind who takes themself too seriously. The feathers in relatively no time had begun to wilt and lose their color. A red flaming irritation started to form in his ass crack. He began spending a lot of time just scratching his own ass. People stopped wanting to shake his hand. He became very irritable and new feathers were not replacing the old ones. His ass had become tired. He realized that he actually had nothing with feathers anyway. So one by one he began to remove the feathers from his ass. To free himself from the burning itch of needing to achieve and receive compliments. The last feather he removed from his ass he decided to save and with a sense of understanding he stuck it in his hat. It was then that he decided that for a change of pace that he would just focus on nuturing the weed plants growing in his garden.