At work I have a small group of employees from which I routinely draft people to help me with various things. These things often involve specific instructions, so I usually make little cards explaining what exactly my henchmen are supposed to be doing this time around. Upon realizing that the jobs generally aren't that exciting, I started doodling little excited stars and hearts and things on the cards to make them more pleasing.
Over the last couple of months the stars and hearts have evolved into, for some reason, tiny but elaborate drawings of vegetables. Pumpkins, eggplant (which I don't like to eat but do like to draw), carrots, mushrooms, strawberries, chili peppers. Today's card, for instance, contained two beets and a bonus rutabaga to fill up extra space. On one particularly boring late night I took an undecorated book-truck and plastered it with big, colorful drawings of tomatoes and corn and carrots. "Eat your veggies!" it declared brightly. Circulation stole it within 24 hours and in another two days it had disappeared entirely, probably stolen and jealously guarded by another library unit.
Today I walked past the department whiteboard and found it completely blank, so I sketched a quick beet (with a speech bubble saying, "I am a beet") and exhorted others to use the space to draw vegetables. When I came back someone had added a self-identifying parsnip, and a second someone with more good intentions than spelling skills had drawn a small dot saying, "I am a pee." A third, helpful, person had corrected them by drawing a puddle saying, "You are a pea. I am pee."
I had to have the last word on the subject, so I drew a towering skyscraper surrounded by a daring, lacelike steel frame. Next to it I placed a tiny stick figure announcing that it had made that building. The conversation thus currently reads:
I am a pee.
You are a pea. I am pee.