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By Andrew: Posted 12/10/05 3:45am EST

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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