I still remember the day I was introduced to the ridiculousness that has become known as "Modern Art." After spending the first half of our art museum fieldtrip looking at paintings and sculptures, my junior class was led into a room where a local artist was having a month-long exhibit. The whispers and confusion began circulating as we looked at cows’ hooves glued to the wall and bits of junk thrown haphazardly onto the floor. The same thought was on everyone’s mind: "I could have done that." Finally, we all congregated around one piece that had caught our eye: seven large porcelain tiles, hanging on the wall in a horizontal line. On each tile the artist had made black horizontal etchings, which began sparsely on the outer tiles and got denser towards the center, creating a nice burn effect. "These are basically large bathroom tiles," explained our tour guide. "The artist went down to the hardware store and really had to decide which patterns could be arranged to make it look like this."

Nobody else caught it right away, but I raised my hand. "You mean, she bought the tiles with the design already on them? So you basically paid her to hang somebody else’s work on the wall?" The tour guide tried to convince me that there was a thought process that went along with deciding how to hang the tiles, "If she had hung them vertically, she wouldn’t have gotten this effect." Yeah, and if the elephant had swung his trunk right instead of left, he would have missed the canvas, right? After trying to convince her for five minutes that there was as much art here as in me hanging a clock, the tour guide cut me off with a huff and moved us on to the next room – probably muttering under her breath about how neanderthalish and uncultured I was.

I’m not against modern art in the abstract. I’m not even against the abstract in modern art. But if somebody is going to be paid more than a quarter for their art, it had better have some kind skill attached to it. (And having the dexterity to wrap one’s nose around a paintbrush does not qualify.) When I see those giant scrap metal sculptures resembling Rorschach tests, I say, "Well done. At least the artist had to know how to wield a crane and an arc welder." When I see a piece of rock chiseled into the shape of what could either be a jawbone or the symbol for infinity, I say, "Wow, any lesser artist would have cracked the stone in half." But, when I see a circle and a square on a blue canvas, I think, "Gee, Billy finally learned how to color inside the lines… Jackass"

Now, I’m not completely close-minded. I know that one man’s trash is another man’s trash in the shape of a palm tree. And I realize that as long as people keep putting up the money, the artists of the world will continue to pick through dumpsters for inspiration. But, it really seems like the more juvenile the art, the more it sells for. A twenty-four by thirty-six charcoal sketch of a log cabin near a waterfall, drawn by some no name artist will fetch about two hundred bucks. But, get some guy with no last name, two different colored socks and half his hair spiked up to throw a bucket of blue paint onto a canvas – missing all but the lower corner in the process – and you’ve got yourself a million-dollar auction my friend. Honestly, how can these snobs raise their bidding paddles with a straight face? Is the "artist" laughing all the way to the bank? Does the guy who bought the elephant’s painting look at it every day and feel good about his purchase? Is his wife at least filing for divorce?

Of course, most of these people are the types who can throw around that kind of money without batting an eyelash. Well hey, if this writing thing doesn’t work out, I guess I can always make a pyramid out of Flinstones vitamins and put a price tag on it. If it all works out, I know exactly what I’m going to do. I’m going to take my million dollars and buy the elephant. I’m going to take away his paintbrush. Then I’m going to mount his head over my fireplace and melt the rest of him down for glue.