Look, a picture of the Eiffel Tower. I'm cultured.

L'amor.Image via Wikipedia

I scanned the newspaper hopefully, but to no avail - there were no anthropomorphic objects looking for a job. Ever since I skinned, boiled and fed Mr. Potato to a tramp, I'd had a void in my life for truly ridiculous things. Sure, I still had Max, but he'd fallen in love with the Eiffel Tower, and had started going to Italian lessons so he could woo her. I'd explained the flaw, but he didn't understand. He swore blind to me the Eiffel Tower was in Sicily.

 I've tried to explain he's thinking of the Mafia again, but I ran out of beans. In case you were questioning the relevance, I drew pictures of Don Corleone on some beans, and the Eiffel Tower on others, then pointed out the differences. It was a long, fruitless day that ended with Max eating a tiny effigy of Marlon Brando.

Anyhow, he'd taken a trip to Madrid, hoping to soak up the atmosphere. I hadn't even tried to stop him, it didn't seem worth it. Besides, all I had left were peas. And all I could think of was the Spanish Civil War. Picasso might have been able to sum up the horror of the experience on the canvas, but I doubted I could replicate the effect on the legume.