Why I was Banned From the Bob Ross Certified Instructor Program

I phthalo blew it.

I was bathing in a hot spring with the Japanese snow monkeys when I felt it move:

My inspiration.

It was like a wakeup call.

Here I was in beautiful Yamanouchi, traipsing the hills, aimlessly spending the millions in damages I’d won after puncturing my spleen on Guy Fieri’s frosted tips when we were caught together in an avalanche. But suddenly I saw that fulfillment had been right in front of me the whole time: landscape painting.

The urge to capture my surroundings in oils and creams on a canvas felt even stronger than the alpha macaque that relegated me to the shallow end of the hot spring.

It suddenly felt like my life had meaning, something I never thought I’d feel again after that taxidermist said it didn’t count as a real “slam dunk” if it involved him lifting me up by the waist.

Eyes dilated, I arose from that hot spring like a phoenix from the ashes, only more pruney, and considerably more upsetting to the snow monkey community.

I hailed my pilot, Holgrum, who’d been inexplicably welcomed by the macaque into the deep end of the spring. And after briefly negotiating my release from the snow monkeys, together we set off for the adventure of my lifetime (Holgrum would later be fired for treachery.)

Learning to fly (with paint)

My training was excruciating. Every day, from sun up to sun down, I would paint the sun going up and the sun going down.

But my drive to learn was strong, and soon I was coloring by more numbers than there are stars in the ocean. My painting instructor, Bushie, had never painted a picture before in his life. But nobody knew more about what a grassy knoll looked like than him; according to his resume, he’d been looking at them intently for over 40 years.

Bushie could be a strict teacher, but he was always fair. He’d make me clean the chalk erasers after our lessons, but only as punishment for when I would tell him he looked like a wet bird (it was unclear where he was getting all these used chalk erasers — there was no chalkboard).

Bushie would also insist on napping in a basket tied to my back while I painted. This practice taught me about the patience and grace required of a painter, and I also gained valuable insight into Bushie’s psyche, as nap after nap I was forced to listen to his night terrors unfold.

As our lessons progressed, my improvement was obvious and I became stronger every day. The colors on the canvas became more stunning and vibrant, and not just because there turned out to be lead in the paint we were using; I was becoming the landscape artist I was meant to be.

But all fairy tales have to end.

An unhappy little accident

My final lesson with Bushie took place on a secluded mountaintop overlooking a forest. I remember it well; it was raining softly and I was dressed completely in leather.

After 14 hours of intense painting, Bushie looked over my finished canvas and gave me the greatest compliment a critic can give a landscape painter: he tried to walk into it.

“You’re ready,” he said, self-consciously wiping the green oil paint from his schnoz.

The joy of hearing my teacher acknowledge my achievement was almost unbearable. I tried to smile, but it came out as my eyes rolling back into my head. To compensate, I performed the “Gangnam Style” dance.

But the celebration was to be short lived.

Just as I was about to wrap up my performance, a flying squirrel bolted like a fighter jet out of an overhanging spruce and latched on to Bushie’s belt loop, hauling him away like a sack of boiled hams.

“BUSHIE,” I screamed, watching helplessly as the poor brute disappeared into the gray clouds of forever, hundreds of Buffalo nickels falling out of his brassiere.

I fell to my knees. It had all played out exactly as one of Bushie’s night terrors had predicted the day before.

Whereas “joy” was an emotion my body struggled to express moments earlier, pain and sadness came natural as gravy, and fat tears slithered down my face like garden slugs.

Bushie was a great teacher, and a true artist; but more than that: he was my ride home.

Dejected, I picked myself up and began the long decent down the mountain, the painting with Bushie’s facial imprint tucked carefully under my armpit.

It began to rain harder. There was a flash of lightning, and as I looked up at the sky, for just a moment, I thought I saw Bushie’s ass.

A giant tree right down the middle

I was lost without Bushie, a lamb among wolves. It seemed few people had interest in landscape painters out in the “real world,” as they callously chose to call it.

But I was not about to give up on the craft I’d given my life and fortune to. I painted landscapes wherever I could, on benches and food trays. I got so desperate I started painting landscapes on actual landscapes (not easy).

But just when all seemed hopeless and I’d sold off the last of my bedazzled jeans, there it was, on my Facebook Timeline: The Bob Ross Certified Instructor Program.

This was my ticket to fame and fulfillment. I looked into Ross’s smiling photo and for a moment wished I had the same ability to grin so dazzlingly on cue.

“I’ll make you proud, Bushie,” I said, my eyes rolling back into my head again.

I showed up unannounced at Bob Ross headquarters in Burbank, California, and aced the entry exam. They’d never seen such colors, speed and efficiency like mine.

Within hours, I was offered a position.

“You’ve taken my breath away,” one of the instructors told me after I’d accidently run into his sternum with a cheese cart I’d been pushing.

They demanded I stay and have my headshots taken. I was to ship out to the Alps the following day to teach the locals the Bob Ross way of life.

It had been weeks since I’d had a good bath, and as they hosed me down like an elephant to prepare me for the photoshoot, I couldn’t help thinking that I’d made it.

They propped me up in front of the cameras and for the first time in my life, on cue, I smiled.

But it wasn’t to last.

“There’s just one more thing,” an assistant director coughed, pulling out a small cardboard box riddled with air holes. “Bob loved little critters, as you know, so we like all our instructors to pose with a squirrel for a few candids.”

I hesitated. A squirrel? Visions of Bushie being flown away like an orca airlifted back to the sea bludgeoned across my hippocampus, and my complexion went Titanium White.

“What’s the matter,” the AD inquired, noticing my perm deflating. “Don’t tell me you’re not ‘Bob’ enough.”

“I’m Bob enough, I’m Bob enough,” I said, wiping the sweat from my brow.

With that, I was sashayed across the studio and propped up on a stool before a camera.

The lighting was adjusted, and I was presented with the cardboard box.

I slowly opened the lid, and came face-to-face with Bushie’s killer.

The joy of vengeance

I had just enough time to duck out of the way as the creature, clearly recognizing me, too, lunged at me with the Bob Ross-certified painting knife.

Thinking quickly, I grabbed a nearby fan brush, and we locked utensils and commenced a duel that, in many ways, I’d been preparing for my entire life.

What the squirrel lacked in size, it more than made up for in strength and speed, and I was beaten into a finely ground chuck. Yet, I continued to fight, driven by thoughts of justice. The cameraman tried a couple times to break us up, but each time I kicked him away. This was personal.

We fought well into the night. When my fan brush ran out, I switched to The Ol’ Big Brush, and parried like I’d never parried before.

Then, suddenly, just as the flying squirrel was about to sign the paint job he’d done to my face in Alizarin Crimson, the stage doors swung open and in walked the AD. He looked at my attacker, pulled out a remote control device from his pocket and pressed a button.

The flying squirrel winced, dropped the 1-inch brush he’d been sautéing me with, and flopped to the floor.

“What is going on here?” the AD demanded, a murderous look in his eye. I opened my mouth to answer, but all my teeth fell out. He surveyed the demolished studio.

“Get out,” the angry man demanded. “You’re no Bob. You’ll never be Bob!” He hurled a tube of Prussian Blue at me and I scuttled toward the exit.

“And as for you,” he said, turning his cruel attention to my rodential adversary. “I think it’s time you learned a lesson of your own — permanently.”

I watched from the corner as the AD menacingly prepared to press his button once again. My eyes met the squirrel’s, and for the first time, I realized this flying squirrel and I were both the same — both lost, both scared, both fond of burying nuts in public parks. I couldn’t let this be how it all ended.

I grabbed my Big Ol’ Brush and lathered it up with clear liquid white.

“Hey,” I said, making every effort to stand. The AD turned and flashed his gums. “…is for horses.” I cocked the horsehair bristles back, instantly regretting the corny “horses” line, and unleashed a fury of liquid white, spraying him right in the mug. He let out a shriek.

“MY EYES! MY EYES!”

Now was my chance. I ran and picked up the prone squirrel and made a beeline toward the exit.

“Not so fast!” barked the AD, his sight recovered. I turned and watched as he picked up the painting knife and flung it at me, and for the second time in my life, my spleen was punctured.

I wilted to the ground like a pansy in September. But I wasn’t down long. I quickly felt a pair of tiny claws wrap around my belt loop and hoist me into the air.

I gaped upward and, for the second time in my life, I looked into the eyes of my arch enemy; and for yet another second time in my life, I smiled on cue.

But the bad news wasn’t all auld lang syne quite yet.

We looked down again and saw the AD had been joined by a swarm of certified Bob Ross instructors who’d stormed the area wielding bazookas.

Well, I’m sensible enough to know when my ticket’s called at the deli, and I braced myself for the fat lady’s song. But amid my wincing, I felt the squirrel press something firmly into my hand. I opened my fist to find a squirrel-sized paintball gun — locked and loaded. The squirrel hurriedly motioned toward a bulging barrel of Sap Green down in the studio below — and ripe for exploding.

I took aim and watched as a look of sudden concern flushed across the AD’s face while he connected the dots.

“Don’t do this!” he yelled at me in desperation. “You’re making a big mistake!”

“There are no mistakes,” I replied, looking down cockily at the army of perms as the squirrel carried me through the sunroof and into the phthalo blue sky. “Just happy accidents.”

The force of the ensuing explosion carried us higher into the clouds. We felt the splatter of the oil paint coating our paws while we made our escape, but we never looked back.

Epilogue

It took months to fully recover from my puncture wound and the squirrel, known to me now as Peapod III, kindly nursed me back to health (although the ensuing bill he mailed me was eye-opening).

Every now and again I find myself thinking fondly of my time as a landscape painter, but I know that life is no longer for me.

I’m much more content here, in this steaming hot spring, surrounded by snow monkeys.

Indeed, there are times when I wonder if I ever should have left these sacred pools, but it doesn’t take long for those negative thoughts to pass.

If I’d never left, I wouldn’t have a squirrely friend to share the shallow end with today.

Peapod has become like a brother to me. But much more than that: he’s my ride home.