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Come Celebrate the Fine Arts With Me
I have always been a great patron of the
arts. My discriminating eye is always sifting through works of
lesser-known artists, on the lookout for the next rising star. With my
advanced pedigree in the fine arts, I can differentiate between
aesthetic jewels fortified with cultural significance, and things that
look like they were once at home in a hog’s rectum. It is with rapturous
mirth that I present a precious find, a rare gift from the Muses, an
artist simply referred to as “T”. His paintings make me want to hang up
my hat on the Lord of Defeat’s erect cock. Let’s have a look at some of
his work.
This masterpiece conveys one of the deepest mythological symbols
embedded in the human predicament: God sitting on his throne while his
head explodes. No detail has been spared in this powerful quest for
fidelity in theological imagery. From the seven sacred bowls of candy
hoisted in nobility at each flank, to the visible aftermath of one of
His legendary “wet robe contests”, causing the linens to cling to His
unbelievable pectorals, much like the faithful cling to His Word. Note
the enviable use of gold paint, and the fabled bird-vaporizing
death-rainbow. I’m not sure which religion this is, but consider me a
convert.
This one floored me. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a more daring and
honest portrayal of some kind of vagina emerging from bubbling marinara
sauce. The sauce I imagine may represent blood, in classic deep-rooted
maternal imagery with strong themes of menstruation. The pure white
wings of the gallant angel is like a righteous maxi-pad making a bold
stand against the crimson surge. Symbolism aside, “T” demonstrates his
absolute mastery over human anatomy with the golden-maned, jaw-dropping
specimen of an angel. He’s so ripped, he’s brought down to one knee by
the burden of his own muscles. He has to drape his arm over his ally for
support (his ally being his own mighty, bulging arm). I know I
personally won’t be satisfied with my workout regimen until I have full,
well-developed buttocks growing out of my left leg.
You know, I was just thinking the other day that my wall could use a
painting of an angel warrior fellating a prune monster. I’m sure when
providing such a rigorous sexual service, it does help to have a
chiseled six-pack of abs on your back.
Looking at this one was like getting punched in the nuts by an android.
Man, this is powerful. Observe the raw energy of that whale, as it
surfaces, presumably to plead for a swift mercy killing. I’m sure it’s
undergone a life of hardships we can’t imagine; egregious birth defects,
innumerable maritime lobotomies. Its eye is glazed over with a deeply
tragic resignation, a sign of an animal so thoroughly defeated in every
way. Yet it summons a kernel of bravery for this final gesture, a plea
from the depths of its soul for some divine lunar force to dispel once
and for all the mockery of its existence. Its last ounce of strength is
used to widen its jaw to the limits, and let forth a noise I imagine
sounds like a baby lamb might sound after being stuck in a tar pit for a
solid week. Pitiful, yet otherworldly in sorrow, and wholly soul
puncturing. For good measure, there’s some dude there whose about to get
crushed by the mammoth, airborne animal. He reaches out as if to say
“Watch it, you hideous lard! Oh, I am so fucked.”
And this is my favorite. As great as all the others are, this one makes
them look like someone stuck some canvases in a port-o-potty and shook
it. Everything about this is fucking amazing. Oakland Raiders linebacker
Bill Romanowski fending off a wild, flaming black steed, in a mystical
snowcapped mountain setting. Jesus Christ, I’m going to need some new
pants. I don’t know if it’s the concept alone, which itself is obviously
mind-blowing. Or maybe it’s the curious, vaguely-humanoid musculature
of the horse. It has a man’s bicep and triceps, and some very
suspiciously man-like back muscles. (this was, and I’m being totally
honest, the sole inspiration for Humanimals)
Or maybe it’s the flaming mane, which on closer inspection, doesn’t
resemble flame so much as synthetic orange puppet hair. This steed is
either from hell, or has recently escaped Fraggle Rock, and is ready to
tear the entire NFL a new asshole. But he didn’t count on bumping into
Bill Romo (understandably, since he was bucking around the middle of the
damned Himalayas). Ring ring. Hey, steed, it’s the glue factory. They
have a message for you, on line 53. Fuck yes!
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