One of the great things about welfare scrounging talentless
bitchpainters and boymessers is that they are so talentless and numbed by
success they cannot see how likely they are to be first on the spit when the
lights go out. They cannot help themselves but get skylined every moment of
every day.
Don’t get me wrong, I agree with Sheridan that the artists are the first ones
to warn the rest of us of doom approaching but that is real artists, you know,
the one’s with talent.
Anyway one day, just before that last BBQ, the committees that
dole out the free money we get to carry as odious debt, should be taken to the
beach and left, with their pet fartists, up to their necks in the sand.
Everyone who wants to can them come and wank in their faces. Now that is an
installation worth being.
Then the poets can get a similar exercise in self
pubicsplishing. Tie them naked to a pole, surround them with their works and
hit them with the infrasound. Oh boy the outpourings of juicy creativity,
queefart, laureate manoil, ladytbatter, queerblather and public ridicule would
be a wondrous creation. Truly Davincean in its mixing of media. Stenching in
drizzle drivel.
I could do better blowing a five note gale out my buttuba
after a good saagwala murg and 10 pints of Cralsberg Export. Anytime, any
surface, pungent 4D faartart. For FREE.
Stick it up Saatchi’s shitter, rotate and hang from a
gallereetree.
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Voyoy cheeky, leave us a deadletteredroped..