Satan Is A Patriotic Cross-Dressing Angel Of Death

This gruesome tile is on the ceiling above the exam table in our pediatrician’s office.

I think they put it there as a warning so children behave.

For reals, though….who says to themselves “I must paint a calming scene on a 14″x14” tile so the children may be relaxed and cooperative throughout their pediatric appointment.”

….And then paints Satan as a patriotic cross-dressing angel of death presiding over a field of sheep he just murdered, (for the talent portion of the “Promised Land” beauty pageant), by pulling out their hearts and putting them in a basket?!?

And, FYI? It looks like HE WON THE PAGEANT!!

What the hell is wrong with people?!?

*Cleansing breath*

The Kid didn’t see all of this at first, but since I took an Intro to Humanities class in college, I was able to point out the horrific artistic imagery represented here…..and once I did, you better believe The Kid was disturbed!

“Mom!” She blurted with an eyeroll and a burdened sigh, “It’s supposed to be a fairy tale.”

Me, bugged that The Kid is so young and not yet savvy to the subtle intricacies of artistic interpretation, “That’s no fairy tale!” I take a deep breath, composing my collegiate-trained brain-thoughts. “If anything, that’s a fable about Satan’s questionable outfits! Because who wears angel wings with a biased cut star skirt?!? Seriously!?!”

I take a moment to calm myself and turn this into a teaching moment. Like good parents do. “That whole outfit’s a bit heavy on the symbolism. Sheep’s clothing, much?” I shake my head, “Dude’s fooling no one.”

The Kid, not convinced by my insightful interpretation, “Have you tried therapy?”

I glare at her.

She KNOWS I’ve tried therapy!

The Kid, understanding the exact glare message I am sending her, “Well, you didn’t try hard enough!”

Me, exasperated and tired of people not understanding what it’s like to live in my head, “They showed me a lot of pictures of butterflies, kinky sex stuff, disfigured clowns…” I trail off as I see The Kid’s attention span has waned.

I look back at the ceiling tile.

Transfixed.

Haunted.

I find myself muttering “Rorschach never painted stuff this weird…”