On Art

This is a story my father told me, one I only now recollect hearing firsthand.

Years ago, much as this past week, there had been a terrible snow storm. My mother, still getting her master's, rushed out of the house one day to take a test. Driving towards a frighteningly tough contemporary art history essay exam, she happened to drive past a Mercedes, haplessly adrift in a, well, a snow drift.

Suddenly, inspiration struck her. What was once a looming dissertation of unknown topic became an obvious solution. Art is, after all, that which has no intrinsic use to society. Having lost all functionality intended for a mid-sized German coupe, the Mercedes had stopped being a car and become a work of art.