The Art that I most appreciate is Art Garfunkel.
He’s a lovely fella, and with his lustrous mop of curly hair, he’s ideal for cleaning out over-sized test tubes.
Everyone should have their own Art Garkfunkel at home (regardless of whether you own a collection of Victorian over-sized test tubes of the approximate circumference of Art Garfunkel’s head).
Sadly, there’s only one of him.
Image via Wikipedia
Dorian Gray sat cross-legged in his high-backed leather armchair and turned to his good friend Frankenstein (the monster).
“It’s a good job that we’re both out of copyright,” the supernaturally sexy rogue guffawed. ”Otherwise you and I wouldn’t be having this conversation, old bean.”
Frankenstein looked bewildered in the face of his compadre’s comment and gingerly fingered the bolts what was sticking out of his neck.
“Frankenstein no understand girlman,” screeched the lumpen travesty. ”What is this copyright of which you speak?”
Gray literally didn’t know where to begin. How could he explain the meta-textual nature of the conversation to his cloth-headed chum? The silken-haired lothario breathed a breathy sigh of relief as he heard two heavy raps at the stoic oak door. He knew that Frankenstein would have forgotten all about this by the time that he returned, and allowed himself a sneaky smirk at the fortuitous timing.
The massive perv rose gracefully from his seat. Such was the elegance of his movements that he even managed to avoid making a farting noise on the antique leather. He glode (or glided) towards the hallway and surreptitiously opened the front doorage. He was somewhat alarmed to be confronted by Lennie and George out of Of Mice and Men.
“What the Dickens are you two doing here?” exclaimed Gray whilst erotically stroking his cock through his flannel slacks.
“Tell me ’bout the rabbits…” started Lennie.
“Shush,” chastised George. ”Not now. I’m sorry, Mr Gray, but we need your help in a matter of the utmost urgency.”
Gray checked his pocket watch, irrelevantly, and shifted uneasily in his patent leather brogues.
“Do not speak another word,” demanded the fop. ”You two ragamuffins were only published in 1937. I really don’t know enough about copyright law to know whether or not you’re allowed to appear in this story. Don’t make me fetch Frankenstein to remove you.”
“But, Mr Gray,” interjected the cleverer of the two bindlestiffs (George). ”There’s been a murder…”
To be continued (possibly)…
Image via Wikipedia
Of course I have a favourite artist. It’s me.
I don’t want to sound conceited or anything, but I’m amazing. I’m one of them modern artists, you know, what you read about in the papers and that.
What makes me distinctive as an artist is that I know that my works of art are rubbish. But, and this is the clever part, they’re supposed to be rubbish. Then, I pretend that they’re not rubbish and people can read all sorts of meanings into them that are in no way present. Then, when someone asks me what my intentions were with the piece, I declare: “Nothing! It’s a load of rubbish.” Well, all those arty types think I’m being deliciously ironic, but I’m not!! I’m telling the truth.
I could tell you the specifics of some of my works, but you’d be disappointed. You’ve really got to see them in a gallery context to get the full effect.
Anyway, I’m off. I’ve got an empty pop bottle that I need to sell to some mug. Ker-ching!
It's a book of this blog.
