My wife and I were making fruitcake today for the holidays since I love fruitcake. I asked her what I should write about for this story and she said fruitcake, so here it is.
“It’s art,” Peter told his mother. He was ten and meticulously arranging boiled eggs around a raccoon carcass while a friend played D flat on the piano every 6.7 seconds.
“What does it mean?” she asked, but her expression said she thought he was a fruitcake.
“What does it mean?” a policeman asked ten years later, after Peter had put a woman’s shoe in every drain in New York.
“You’re a fruitcake, you know?”
Finally, he made a piece of artwork that captured national attention.
“100-foot statue made entirely of fruitcake!” the headlines screamed. “What could it mean?”