A couple of weeks ago, the internet went fucking bananas because Netflix, in their infinite wisdom (may we worship them until the television becomes sentient and kills us all), added Bob Ross’s “Beauty is Everywhere” to their list. Relaxing, nostalgic (though none of us can really remember why), and just fucking delightful, people dropped their lives to binge-watch the Man Himself paint happy little trees.
Like any self-respecting booze-hound writer, I got hammered and watched until I passed out.
This is my journey.
Phthalo blue is not a real color, Bob. Phthalo is the name of a hobbit, cousin of Bilbo, who still doesn’t know how to spell his name at the age of 549, or however long those little fuckers live.
I don’t like the way you smile when you say, “Beat the devil out of it,” Bob. Do you know something we don’t? You’ve made deals, haven’t you? That’s why it takes you twenty-three minutes to paint an entire landscape with zero self-loathing and trips to the bathroom to “get a little inspiration.”
Phthalo still isn’t a color, no matter how many times you say it, or how much crimson you add to it. And while we’re at it, that color is purple, not blueandcrimson.
Ohmagawd this is so relaxing and this whiskey is delicious.
“Just make some decisions,” he says. Like he knows me. Pfft. I have until the first of the month, just like everyone else.
Where the shit did all those trees come from?
I don’t think indication means what you think it means, Bob. That isn’t the indication of a big fucking tree; that’s an actual big fucking tree.
I could totally paint this. *sluuuuurp*
Okay, okay. LISTEN. Shhhh. I’ve got an idea.
Drinking game. Ready? Cool.
Beating the devil out of a brush: take a shot.
“Little doers” make an appearance: take a shot.
SOME RANDOM FUCKING ANIMAL SHOWS UP OUT OF NOWHERE: Pet your cat because she’s adorable, then take a shot.
“Oooh that’s nice.” Take a shot. Hell, take two, because it reminds you of how little you’re getting laid.
Drunk yet? *sluuuurp* Me, too.
“The canvas will pull out what it wants, and give you back what’s left.” Since when are we getting deep, Bob? What are you hiding from me? Are you seeing another pitiful drunk woman?
I’d murder a mildly innocent person to get you to say fuck, Bob. Say fuck. Just once. You could even whisper it. Listen. Fuuuuuuuuck. Isn’t it lovely?
… No I don’t want to see your little creature, Bob. Especially not your “pocket squirrel.” Just paint, god dammit. Perv.
I have a theory. It’s not a good theory. And probably not even a theory. I’m not drunk. Just speaking cursive. His shirt matches the first color he uses on the canvas. There’s probably some deep, meaningful reason for that, but it eludes me at the moment, much like my sobriety.
Yellow ochre. Phathalo blue. Van Dyke Brown. Bright-motha-fuckin’-red. Could you not think of ANYTHING to compare red to, Bob?
*snort* Bushes. I ought to ladyscape soon.
Using odorless paint-thinner is like drinking non-alcoholic beer, Bob. How dare you condone such behavior? THINK OF THE CHILDREN. Or if not the children, think of me.
What is this insanity? You just STOP PAINTING? The painting isn’t finished when you DECIDE. It’s finished when you can’t stand to look at the fucking thing anymore. EVERYONE KNOWS THAT.
Hour… uh… something:
I was in the kitchen for five goddamned minutes, Bob. You couldn’t wait five minutes to finish the lake? How do I paint those little doers by the shore? Which obscenely complicated combination of colors did you use to paint that rock? WHERE DID THAT MOUNTAIN COME FROM?
I’m useless. I will never be able to create landscapes as beautiful and efficient as this winter wonderland.
That chip was burnt. Ew. Oooh! Pizza. Praise the baby cheezus.
Why does that evergreen tree have more friends than I do? Am I too person-like? Do I have too few branches with which to shade them?
Life is pointless, Bob. You know that? I think you’re lying about the paint thinner fumes.
But that seascape is fucking beautiful.
No, YOU’RE crying.
I wonder if there are any new episodes of Kimmy Schmidt.
Fuck you, Netflix.