My wife said I make love like a painter.

I said,

“What, like Da Vinci, smooth strokes, attention to detail, and the result of a masterpiece?”

She said,

“No, like the Council, rush the job, leave a f***ing mess, and I have to finish it myself!”

The other night, my wife casually dropped a comment that left me scratching my head.

She said, “You make love like a painter.” Naturally, I took it as a compliment—I mean, painters are artists, right? Masters of their craft, creators of beauty!

So I puffed up my chest and said, “Ah, like Da Vinci? Smooth strokes, precise technique, attention to detail, and the result is nothing short of a masterpiece?”

She paused, smirked, and replied, “No… more like the guy who paints road lines: quick, sloppy, and you somehow manage to miss the edges!”

Not one to be easily defeated, I tried to recover. “Well, at least I’m like Picasso—bold, experimental, and maybe a bit abstract?”

She shook her head. “Nope, more like a house painter.

You show up with all the right tools, but you still forget half of them, take way too long, and leave a mess everywhere for me to clean up!”

Feeling cornered, I went for broke: “Okay, fine! Maybe I’m a little like Jackson Pollock—messy and unconventional, but there’s passion in every drop!”

Her laughter was uncontrollable at this point. “If by ‘passion,’ you mean random splashes with no sense of direction, then sure!”

As she walked away, still chuckling, I sighed. Who knew being compared to a painter could hurt my ego so much?

Next time, I’m aiming for Bob Ross. At least he makes happy little mistakes!