Yes. That’s Exactly What I Was Going For.

If pretentiousness is a prerequisite for “success” as an artist, I can’t wait to continue this ascent up the mountain of failure. Firstly, I don’t use the word “swaray”, nor do I spell it “soiree”; only pretentious people spell it correctly. If your dinner party is serving cavyare and expensive shampain, I’ll do my best to impregnate those sexy fish eggs right in front of you, and start a game of beer-pong with that over-priced bubbly shit that you’re sippin’. By the way, a flute is a musical instrument (that you probably have someone playing live at your swaray) not something you use to drink. And quit smelling your drink. It’s a called a drink. Drink it.

I never stroke my chin when considering a piece of art/writing/music, unless it's to purposely smell the nicotine on my fingers to distract me from the odoriferous stench of flower infused cat-piss that everyone has dabbed on their neck and wrists. Nor do I indulge in conversation of art critique. You either like it, or you don’t. No need to spew endless “knowledge” of this and that technique. I appreciate the passion, but, more often than not, the sincerity is lost in the elitist masterbatorial tone.

I don’t care how much success you’ve had as an artist, never name your child after your favorite artist, city or another last name, i.e. York, Paris or Sloan. If you’re going for a wholly original name, I much prefer something along the lines of the ghettofied yet strangely Spanish sounding DeShawn or LaRay. Or, the completely tactless Dillinger. But to name your kid after your favorite herb- Sage? I just puked on your flautist. And don’t tell me that Sage is the Greek meaning of a man who has attained wisdom. That’s not the first thing that comes to people’s mind when they hear sage. If you think otherwise, then you’ve proved my point.

I hope to never look “smashing” or “dignified”. I prefer snot-dripping belly-laughs as opposed to shallow guffaws. I’d rather break-dance your fox-trot. If you like my art, I prefer you down a handle of whisky and pass out screaming, instead of lipping a mimosa and giving an opera clap that you can’t even hear because you’re wearing shoulder-length gloves in the middle of summer. Comfort over fashion, daaaaaling. If someone asks what you do, be specific—like a painter, sculpter, musician or writer. Never refer to yourself as an artist. It makes me queezy.

Lastly, there is nothing more pretentious than a bitter artist who hasn’t found “success”, and has nothing better to do than to write about and disgrace those who have. Fuckers.

Cheetos & Prostitutes

I was cycling home from work the other day and I saw this prostitute on the corner ahead. As if the idea of getting intimate with a hooker (can I call it intimate?) wasn’t tantalizing enough, this one was gorging her hole (mouth) with a bag of Cheetos. She started hollering something as I was approaching, and since I was the only one within ear-shot, she was obviously hollering at me. To avoid her, I tried to get to the opposite side of the street, but there wasn't a break in the on-coming traffic. To make things worse, there was a decent incline in the street that slowed me down considerably.

My plan was simple—avoid eye contact and keep cycling. Though, just like a pedophile near a playground, I had to look. She was wearing a raggedy, tight White Sox jersey that had been cut off so high that her mammaries were hanging out. Pancakes. Her spandex cycling shorts were so tight that her camel was giving me the middle finger. Which is strange since they only have two toes. Cheetos orange made up her face and fingers.

As I cycled passed, she screamed, “Hey sexy white boy! You want some fine chocolate milk?” She’s quite the talent, as she obviously read my mind and discovered that I indeed had a craving for chocolate milk around lunch time. Fortunately, that craving had passed, and the milk that she was offering was probably way out of date. Poor lady. Maybe I just care too much about Small-Business-America, but how does she expect to get any clients with her face and fingers covered in Cheetos grease? I thought about stopping and offering her a wet-wipe (yes, I occasionally carry wet-wipes. I’m a dog-walker. Lots of dog poo), but maybe her clients have a cheetos fetish? Crunch and wipe lady. Crunch and wipe.

Hardwood

It was sweet. Some of it hit the hardwood. Didn’t matter, she was sweet. Sugar high. Come-down from hell. Hardwood for weeks. Stepped upon. Spoiled. Thrown away.