The Friendly Skies Have Died a Horrible Death

By Tresckow

Who the hell enjoys flying anymore? Sadists, maybe. Big business, the federal government, and shitheads trying to get into some version of heaven by wearing shoes filled with poorly made explosives and kooky dreams have changed what was once a pleasant and exciting experience. There used to be a time when EVERYONE would get a healthy portion of peanuts and all the soft drinks one bladder could hold. Of course, this was back in the day when you didn't have to wear a hospital gown and get felt up by some security guard drop out masquerading as 007.

Even this picture of 007 has more of its shit together than any TSA rent-a-cop.

Flying coast to coast is especially heinous (rhymes with anus). I used to do it on a regular basis for a job I had. A horrible, horrible job. One that was the modern equivalent of a sweat shop run by the Three Stooges... but I digress. A lot.

The flying cattle cars airplanes have become have put me off intercontinental travel. But, what can you do? You sure as shit don't have any other options. How else are you supposed to get to the third world side of the US without investing a ridiculous amount of time? Conestoga wagon? I'm all out of oxen. Train? Hell no, that shit takes FOREVER and can be a poop sack of expenses making the outrageous airfare rape look reasonable. So, OK, I'm stuck. The travel Mafia's got me. Assholes.

That schmuck in the VIP ticket line really belongs in coach. Want me should explain it to him?

So I receive this mandate from Adel that I need to report to Northern Idaho for her wedding. Yeah, someone is self loathing enough to fasten that ball and chain around his ankle. Poor sommabitch. Can't he develop a crippling alcohol dependency like a normal person?

This guy may be sloppy drunk and face down in a urinal, but at least he still has his self respect.

As I was saying, I received my standing orders to report to Adel's wedding. Aside from being forced to wear a tux I had to socialize with a motley crew of ex IRA, British blowhards, and a generous helping of motorcycle gang. You read that right. Guess which two groups are related to Ren? Did I mention that Adel's hubby is Ren's brother? That probably explains the self loathing thing.

Somebody get this guy some Vicodin and a gun.

Being the only FWTC writer not in the Pacific Northwest, I have to drag my ass to meet everyone else. Truthfully, this whole thing really should have been done to accommodate MY needs. But, noooooooo. The little princess has to have things HER way. Selfish. Just plain selfish.

Planning the flight itinerary is a pain in the ass, in its own right. Trying to find a flight that won't require the sale of an internal organ on the black market AND doesn't leave at o'dark thirty is basically impossible. It's the travel equivalent of getting a boiling hot sandpaper enema. Take a bit to let that one sink in.

I mean, really think about it.

I wasn't able to do either of the above. My flight was scheduled to leave at 6 AM and I did have to sell one of my kidneys to finance the trip. At least I have what's left of my liver. I plan on killing that bastard before, during, and after the wedding ceremony. So, yay me!

I figured, what the hell, I might as well just stay up, since I have to leave my abode by 4 AM. I spent the night re-watching the Sons of Anarchy season finale, a ton of Ramsay's Kitchen Nightmares, and the last half of Young Guns. Then I made like a tree and got the hell out of Dodge. After loading up on mass quantities of caffeine enriched goodness, that is. Guess what? It was a completely fucktarded idea to stay up all night. Chalk another grand decision made using my flawless logic.

Thou has forsaken me!

After driving to the airport parking dealy I went to claim my boarding pass. One would think this would be relatively easy, since we live in modern times with technological marvels spouting from every orifice. I made the mistake of checking in from my home office. True to form, my printer decided to run out of ink, despite the system telling me that the cartridge was half full. Someone's a liar.

I'll tend to that lying software when I get back.

I could, at least, pay for my checked baggage (read: bullshit charge) at a discounted rate. I had to argue with the self check in kiosk for ten minutes; it insisting I didn't need a boarding pass, but the ticket agent telling me otherwise. The option she kept telling me to select simply did not exist on the damn screen. So, after a bit of cursing and slight computer abuse, I finally got the paperwork. My bag was tagged and it was on its way. I wouldn't see that bad boy until the day AFTER I arrived. More on that joy later.

Want to see a magic trick? Watch the airline ground crew make this shit disappear.

The particular airport I was departing from is a shit hole. They're repainting it and attempting to make it look less like an inner city dump. But, as the old saying goes, you can gift wrap a turd all you want. Inside, it's still a turd.


At this un-Godly hour of the morning, none of the eateries were open. I hadn't had anything to eat since my dinner of munchkins and air. I figured I could iron man it. I'll shell out some dough on the flight to buy infuriatingly over priced "breakfasts." Guess what, United. A bagel that is french toast flavored does NOT constitute a french toast breakfast. For $4 I expect, at least, some sort of meat.

For the love of God, how much could Spam in bulk cost?

But, before the breakfast debacle, I ended up sitting at the gate with the millions of others waiting for the flight. Per usual, I scanned the crowd looking for people I have no desire to sit next to. This really doesn't do much good, but imagining their heads exploding makes me happy. The odd thing was that I didn't spot one single mullet. Coast to coast flights usually have one or two people that believe business should be in the front and the party, most definitely, in the back. I was a little disappointed.

The lack of hockey hair did leave me feeling a little empty inside.

I did manage to sit near a young couple with a kid that couldn't have been more than a year old. The kid looked at me as if to say, "I am going to ruin your shit the ENTIRE FLIGHT!" I knew this was a bad sign. The lack of the mullet people surely meant that the travel gods had something even better in store for me. The lack of rotund passengers meant that this kid was going to be the problem de jour of the flight.

This should be standard issue on EVERY flight, just like the barf bag and broken headphones.

Herded like cattle onto the plane, I was grateful that my row-mates were little women. Not midgets, but small. One was Chinese and the other about 300 years old. It was just awesome that the old bag had no idea how to turn her cell off. The entire plane had to friggin wait until grandma figure out how to cut the power. I was seconds close to just ripping the battery out, but someone managed to complete the complicated task of pushing the RED button to shut the damn thing off. Damn these new fangled gadgets!

Still too complicated for the blue hair crowd.

The plane was roughly 40% Chinese passengers. I hate Chinese. No, I'm not spouting racism. I'm talking about the language. I don't really like or hate the Chinese, as a people. I'm sort of indifferent. Alright, that whole "Great Leap Forward" thing was a joke. I mean, come on. Willing an entire country stuck in the 1800's to be technologically advanced doesn't make it so. Then again, any governmental policy the results in thousands of deaths is one I can get behind. And I'm not sure that laying concrete in the rain is going to do wonders for the Three Gorges Dam (We WILL be technological savvy TODAY!).

Nevermind. We're sure China will do just fine.

So, I guess I'm really a language-ist. I hate the Chinese language. It doesn't sound as subtle and romantic as German or as elegant as Icelandic. Each syllable is a finger nail on the proverbial chalk board to me. Yeah, I said it. I hate the Chinese language. What are you going to do about it, China? I hate the romance languages too. Don't like it? Piss off.

Typo: "Your" should be in there, somewhere.

Once the flight took off and the normal bullshit was completed, the little meal cart came out. At least United gives you the entire can of soda. I've been on others that pour your drink into a Dixie Cup filled with ice. I'm an adult. Give me the whole can! How much money are you actually saving by rationing soda like that? I hear the next step is using pay toilets. All I have to say about that is: ASSHOLES!

Remember that kid in the terminal I told you about? This is when his diabolical plan comes to fruition. As soon as everyone gets into that feel good "We're staying in the air and not going to crash" zone the kid starts to cry. OK, fine. It happens. Whatever. I've heard that the difference in air pressure can do that to a rug rat. I noticed something, though. The kid only cried when a passenger fell asleep.

I know what you're thinking. I thought it was coincidence, too. So, I did a Jane Goodall with the chimps type thing and observed the little monster from the safety of my duck blind. When everyone in our section was awake, the kid was sleeping like... well a baby. As soon as some poor bastard in row 22 dozed off, BAM! Screaming kid. I don't know if this was the work of some sort of infant evil genius or if there were more sinister factors involved. Either way, the parents didn't appreciate the Jack Daniels/NyQuil cocktail I sent over.

Maybe I should have sent a NyQuil on the rocks.

To top the first leg of the trip off the only movie they showed was Elf. ELF! Just because it's the Christmas season doesn't mean innocent bystanders must be subjected to holiday themed comedy abortions with Will Ferrell wielding the rusty scalpel.

You are not funny, Will Ferrell! There were more yucks during Schindler's List.

Landing in San Francisco, I realized that I had exactly thirty minutes to make my connecting flight to Spokane. No problem. The lady pilot knew her shit. For once I wasn't on a plane that felt like it was dive bombing Berlin. Her landing was as smooth as Billy D. Williams.

And you know that mofo's smooth.

The issue was that our gate was blocked by another plane. That's right, everyone on my flight had to suffer for some slow ass who couldn't read a clock. There is no excuse to leave so friggin late that you completely fuck up another flight's schedule. What the hell were they waiting for? I don't care! You screwing up my shit!

And now you've pissed off Billy D.

Take the thirty minute window I had, smash it with a sledge hammer and set it on fire. I barely made the puddle jumper to Spokane with NO TIME TO SPARE. I was the last one on the plane. If I had missed it I would have had to spend time in San Francisco. Who the hell wants to do that?

Here is where the real airplane joy began. I had a window seat. No big deal, it's cool. That just means I don't have to get up to accommodate some ass clown's bladder. I can just listen to my iPod and relax for two hours. No. There would be no relaxing. There would be no joy. There would be no personal space. As if to get even with me for not sitting next to one of America's spherically challenged on the first flight, I was consigned to airplane hell on this trip. Some vindictive SOB sat me next to either the worst Gallagher or the best David Crosby look-a-like in history.

You try sitting next to THIS.

It was an orchestra of sounds with this asstard. I'm cool if you want to sleep on a flight. I try to. But, when you start to audibly snore and bob your head like an ornament on a taxi's dash, there's a problem. His big, meaty leg kept crossing the personal space boundary. We all have to abide by the imaginary line that divides our cramped seats on flights. It's common courtesy. No one wants to feel your warm, sweaty leg rub against their own. There is NO exception for fattys. Dude, I don't give a shit if it's glandular, rein your fat in!

Not shown: Male pattern baldness and a ridiculous mustache from the 60's.

After two hours of snoring, sweaty fat hell, I finally reached Spokane (because no airline goes to bumblefuck northern Idaho). Remember that checked luggage I mentioned at the start of this article? That bad boy was back in San Francisco. I waited at the luggage carosel for a while, watching others get their bags. Fewer and fewer bags were left, until the damn thing just stopped rotating. WTF? In their infinite wisdom, United left my bag at SFO. Why? No one knew. There were no notes, no red flags, nothing that said it was blown up as a security precaution... not a damn word. The customer service rep just shrugged and made me fill out a form. Now, I was in Washington preparing to drive to my final destination with the attractive aroma of travel stink and David Crosby funk. Whooohoooo!

This was me, except with a lot more yelling and throwing things.

All in all, I got to podunk northern Idaho without my bag. It's great meeting family of friends' smelling like the inside of a bus station locker. Let's hear it for first impressions! The only thing I could do was hang up my clothes and spray them with some lemon pledge I lifted from a housekeeping cart. I'll take lemon scented wood polish over sweat sock any day.

Also doubles as a breath freshener.

10 Types of Corporate Idiots in Every Organization

By Tresckow

All offices, be they government, association, or public have one thing in common. In fact, it actually may be the natural order of things. We, as mere mortals, dare not try to understand it. It just IS. We, at the FWTC, call it Corporate Personality Disorder or CPD.

What is CPD, you ask? It's sort of a self-imposed caste system. Instead of being enforced on a social level, like in India, the corporate castes are segmented into the different subcategories of CPD, each defined by the individual employee's personality dysfunction or "batshit crazy" behavior.

Where the fuck is my hole punch!

Just for the record, our theory of CPD is in no way connected to this dude's definition. His deals with corporations, as a whole, fucking over the earth or beating baby seals with rubber hoses filled with lead shot or some shit. But, to be safe, we'll change OUR theory's name to Corporate Batshit Insane Personality Disorder (CBIPD- Happy now, legal department?).

Sorry, dude. The term isn't copyrighted. Boo-yah!

At any given moment in time we are surrounded by idiots, wannabes, brown nosers, and the clinically douchey. In order to make your work life easier we decided to categorize the 10 most common business fucktards likely to drive you out of your cotton pickin' mind. If you happen to fit any of these categories, seek help before one of your co-workers embeds a tape dispenser in your poop chute.

1: Corporate Seat Filler

If you've ever watched the shit parade of television award shows, you no doubt know what a "seat filler" is. If you haven't, (God, how I envy you) a seat filler is some dipshit who is charged with putting his ass in an empty seat to make the show look packed. So, when John Voight gets up to take a dump or Paris Hilton steps out to freshen her STDs, it's the seat filler's job to keep the cushion warm.

Offices have the same thing. Alright, there aren't dozens of people running around the building, hopping into empty chairs. But, there are brainless suckos who are hired to essentially take up space.

Ever wonder to yourself "What the hell does he/she friggin do here?" My friend, that inert piece of flotsam is a corporate seat filler. They're labeled with titles such as "personal assistant" or "senior administrative specialist to the executive Reich Minister," but, when it comes down to it, these asshats just make coffee, tie up their office phone with personal calls, and rummage through the office fridge stealing food. Considering this stockpile of uselessness, somehow, these craptastic human paperweights seem to dodge the annual company lay offs. Why? We can't have our executives making their own flight arrangements and wiping their own asses can we?

Where the hell is my assistant? I need the squeegee and the company priest here, STAT!

2: Wishy-Washy Yes-Man/The corporate windsock

This decision making abortion can't, under any circumstances, commit without knowing which way the wind's blowing. Your ass is constantly on the line, desperately clinging to the modicum of useful information that can be decoded from this bunghole's blabbering. It's like speaking to Robin Williams.

Somehow you were able to translate the illogical, contradicting bullshit flowing out of his mouth and skipper a project/contract/account/human sacrifice that will take your company into the next decade. Awesome! A round of beer on FWTC. That is after we find that gold mine we really believe is somewhere along the Teton River. We're good for it man.

Nevermind [insert the Price is Right loser sound here]. We're not going to buy a round. Your boss' boss just came out of her panic room. You've done what you could with what Mushmouth words fell out of your boss' mouth. But. like a kick in the balls with an iron boot, your boss' boss decides to pretend to be relevant and completely dick with your hard work. "We should go in a different direction with this. Look at this as an exercise." Without missing a beat, your boss suddenly becomes sentient and is doing a kick ass impression of Dr. Goebbels doting over Hitler. His pie hole openeth and spews "That's exactly what I was thinking. That's such a great idea, boss. We'll get him on this in no time and trash this project!" Fuck you!

A fucking exercise? You have got to be shitting me! It sure as shit felt like a mind numbing, soul crushing, 60 hour work weeks for two months God almighty for-friggin-real deal . Times like these, I like to ask that age old question, what would Jesus do?

Hell, yeah! Looks like a shopping spree at Home Depot and Gun World tonight!

3: Decision Clairvoyant

Ever get the impression in a meeting that you're there purely for decoration. To be just another nodding head to the Pandora's box of, yet another, corporate logic raping? Well, you are.

Take a look around. Who called this meeting? Whose agenda is this. Ah, shit, buckle up, it's time for a corporate enema. The "leader" of this sorry group asks questions, solicits advice, but at every turn, reasserts him/herself as the master of their domain. Calling a meeting was pointless, for the outcome was foreseen! How? Who could have such powers? The Decision Clairvoyant, of course!

This turbo bitch knows exactly how these meetings will end; by having her mind made up before the damn thing takes place. She gazed into her crystal ball five minutes before the other drones stumbled into the conference room. Or, just simply uses the meetings to make a power play and show off her "IRON WILL!"

You: "Maybe we shouldn't drown puppies at our next convention."

DC: "NO!" We WILL drown puppies at the next event. We'll be the biggest and best puppy drowners of all time! You want to be a team player, don't you? "

This pisses me off enough to make me vomit out of anger. Truthfully, I don't have the adequate volume of the bile and stomach contents it would take to puke a rage this big.

Sorry,my barf bag friend. I just don't have it in me.

4: Super Businessman

It's a bird! It's a plane! No, wait. It's just some douche that will fix everything with business jargon and fashionable cliches.

Every meeting is the same with this caped crusader. The first 20 minutes are submerged in phrases like, "Maximize the paradigm!" or, "Realign the the alignment to meet the demographic shift in the cross functional matrix!" Everyone has the same look, but no one ever blurts out "What the fuck are you talking about?" But, really, that's YOUR problem. SUPER BUSINESSMAN need not translate. YOU must delete all words and phrases in your head before the arrival of SUPER BUSINESSMAN and learn the blessed tongue.

Who cares if half the shit he's saying doesn't apply to your particular industry or company. Shipping beef is a lot different than shipping paperclips. An executive who spent fifteen years in the marble business probably won't make the best executive for the seafood industry. "What? You mean the trucks have to be refrigerated? Never had to do what with marbles." I'm betting that customers won't contract a foodborne illness and shit themselves to death if they get a "bad" Aggie.

When it comes down to it, SUPER BUSINESSMAN wows the senior management with his fashionable business speak/bullshit. They just won't worry about all that...other detail. No! SUPER BUSINESSMAN will force that square peg into a round hole. It will fit damn it! I will be your golden idol! You will all bask in my brilliance!

Now if I could only remember how that idol worshiping thing turned out in the Bible.

5: Grandmaster Save-a-buck

Everyone has to make a budget at some point, right? Every payday you need to know exactly how much you have to spend on food and how much you can spend on lap dances. This usually happens in most businesses (yes, the lap dances).

Surely companies have made sensible financial cuts. Sorry, sir, no roof top hot tub, we had to make cutbacks. No Ma'am, we didn't slaughter dozens of the finest rabbits so that we may reupholster your board meeting throne. Oh, sorry Mister President CEO, you may need to think hard on that company Mercedes this year. Just a suggestion, but we have to make a choice between continuing to lease you the company car or calling a team to figure out how all those Ewoks got into the server room. They're everywhere. You have no idea!

We have no fucking idea how they got in, but now they won't leave. They're fashioning weapons from faulty hard drives and leftover copper wiring.

But, when the fat has been trimmed and you're cutting into the bone, there's a problem.

It's an emergency! Stock is down, product isn't selling, the Feds are onto the company's slave trading, whatever. Bottom line is the company has to better its bottom line. This is where Grandmaster Save-a-buck comes into play with his ham fisted hold on dipshit economics.

It starts off reasonably, at first. Then, all of a sudden, the game changes. It's no longer just about cutting the redundant expenses. Now it's about cutting EVERYTHING, including basic essentials needed to meet Geneva Convention regulations. Whoa there! You can reuse those coffee grounds. Toilet paper? To save we've switched to the sub-economy brand. Requisitioning an order for a new light bulb? What are we made of money? Candles are 5 for 5 at the drugstore. That's a good thing, because the thermostat is now set to 40 degrees in the winter. Warm yourself up, Bob Cratchit style.

Don't speak to me about coal, Mr. Cratchit! When you put your hand into a bunch of goo that a moment before was your best friend's face, you'll know what to do. [We may have mixed up George C. Scott's roles for this one]

6: Captain Condescension

As children we all needed adults to set our dumbasses straight. Sure, we all need pointers and advice as we join the adult world. However, it should be done on the understanding that we're older than five and have mastered the art of wiping our own ass.

Cue Captain Condescension. This bag of ass sweat is always on the case as long as the case involves making you feel and look like a total asshole. Mere corrections are not enough for this butt munch. Oh no, he has to hammer the point in until the nail comes out the other side. This is past the point of making friendly suggestions or corrections. He doesn't mean well. His words didn't accidentially come out with an unintended tone of dickishness. This is deep inside jackass territory.

Be it for ego's sake or because daddy didn't love him enough as a child, the Captain NEEDS to point out how brilliant he is and how friggin clueless his coworkers are. This isn't mere sarcasm (of which I am an artist) this is insecure pissing contest crap. Guess what, Captain. Half of your coworkers are plotting for you to have an unfortunate run in with the business end of a mail cart.

7: Half-assed Micromanager

This insecure ass face is an distrusting control freak. He's so paranoid that his subordinates will completely screw up the simplest task if he isn't watching them like Ted Kennedy eying up a bottle of scotch (too soon?).

Everywhere you turn, there he is. Have an assignment? Well, just go into his office each time you make a decision to have it changed. Are you attempting independent thought? Not on his watch. Is that project almost complete? He'll dissect it like your frog in high school biology.

Somewhere along the line, you'll spend a shit ton of the business day just seeking his approval for the type of font used for an email. I said TIMES NEW ROMAN, NOT CALIBRI!

The real kick between the uprights will be when he wants to know why your project is taking so long.

8: Big Picture, Little Brain

Many people in the business world call process people "short sighted" or a "dark cloud." That's really because process people are the ones that get the job done. They have to be the thinkers that get figure out the "hows" and "whys." The polar opposite of a process person is a "big picture" person. That's basically a classification of executive that likes to hear themselves speak using broad and vague terms, not to actually create a "big picture," but to provide themselves with an open canvas that will easily cover their own asses if something goes south.

Big picture people have begun to believe that they are superior to the detail monkeys that actually have to make the BIG PICTURE a reality. Or, and this will induce a shit storm larger than Katrina, point out that the big picture is flawed. Damn it! There you go again process dude. Raining on our big thinking parade. Yeah, I'm raining on your parade, but that's not water.

The process-mongers, will build a foundation of the gods. Plan baby plan. OK, boss, what does it look like? Should it be red? Involve children? Yetti's? Genetic cloning? The guys in the warehouse have been dying to reanimate the Tyrannosaurus we've had boxed up in bay 3 for the last two years. Put us in coach. PUT US IN!

Above: Successful marketing.

If you listen closely, you can hear the sound of the air conditioning blowing through this jack hole's ears. The team is there, salivating for an over all direction so they can be cut loose. These people are no longer office mates. They're eager, grunting Mongolian warriors awaiting orders from the Khan to slaughter the ever loving shit out of the project at hand. But, that is nowhere near what this newly formed Mongolian businessman horde is about to hear. Starting at the 0:52 seconds mark, the clip below is a pretty good example of the mindless blathering you're likely to hear from a Big Picture, Little Brainer.



It's enough to drive a person to play kick ball with this dick's teeth.

9: Chess Master

I hate this sommabitch like the Jews hate the Nazis. He's the Chris Angel of corporate illusion, only without the dramatic music in the background.

Everything this master of the unseen contributes to his personal agenda. Whenever he is giving you seemingly honest and good natured advice, it's a scam. Making the tough decisions? It's a scam. Settling a dispute between coworkers? Scam, scam, SCAM!

The entire existence of this jackhole is to constantly and consistently move the pieces of the office chess board in his favor. He is the puppet master and you are the foam pawn with his hand up your ass.

We dare you to get this image out of your head.

But, why? Why all the game playing and people manipulating? Your parking space, an office with a window, first in line at the office picnic... it could be anything. Typically, it revolves around a high ranking exec's lust for power. [See: Hitler as Chancellor] This megalomaniac's need to rule the world will eventually cost you your job, sanity, or both. Check your back, daily, for knife wounds.

Really killed for his parking space.

10: The Royal Order of the Ivory Tower

This wondertard is usually the head of the company. They are suprememly insulated from disturbing things like employee complaints, the presence of chess masters in their senior staff, and reality in general. This guy doesn't want to know what's really going on. He just wants to hear the good things and go to cocktail parties with the other Masters of the Universe. If there are no good things to say, he wants you to make that shit up.

You'll be able to recognize this chuckle head by his clueless happy disposition in the middle of the company's budget crisis. He surrounds himself with henchmen to do all the dirty work. They serve as a type of human iPhone. Employees need to be laid off? There's an ap for that. Someone need to be demoted? There's an ap for that. Company responsible for the poisoning of thousands because of mixing lead paint with pudding? There's an ap for that.

I know that "tell staff of budget crisis while buying a company car" ap is here somewhere.

This guy sort of is like the Quaker on the Quaker Oats box. He's a figure head, but doesn't really do anything. He insists on delivering all the good news and routinely calls office-wide meetings to make him feel better about himself. He's under the delusion that the company revolves around him, yet when he's on one of his three week vacations in Europe, no one seems to notice.

He'd kick his own mother in the sternum to get publicity and throw a child into a cheetah paddock if it meant one more head shot on the cover of an industry magazine.

Coming soon: The Executive Version.

I Don't Know If It's Art, But I Know What's Retarded

By Tresckow

I'm not an art fan. I don't pretend to be one. My programing is heavier on the concrete, fact based side of life. That's just how it is. I can appreciate good art. Who doesn't love a Dogs Playing Poker piece or a velvet Elvis painting?

Breath taking.

Alright, so I may not be able to derive the symbolism of a painting of a bowl of fruit or a free standing wood sculpture of a windmill made of clown heads. But, in general, I like to think I have an "everyman" sense of taste recognition. There are some things out there that are just plain ass kicking awesome.

Yup, I can dig this. Michelangelo went blind for this. Makes you wonder why he didn't invent goggles.

There's no friggin code in this, Dan Brown.

Who the hell are you kidding, Duchamp? More like Douche-chump.

They say art is in the eye of the beholder. Well, when I was strong armed into going to one of the nation's most famous art museums, I beheld crap. Tell me what talent goes into sculpting a gigantic red letter R? How, exactly, is a map of the United States completely fashioned from license plates NOT a shitty cop out? Don't get me started on that pretentious douche bag Andy Warhol.

It's a SOUP CAN you yuppie retards! A SOUP CAN!
If my kid tried to pull this bullshit and call it art, I'd send his ass to military school.

Needless to say, what I saw outright perplexed me. Not only have some of these nose picking wondertards get away with this shit, but there are tens of thousands of assholes that BELIEVE they get some secret meaning or message that the common man couldn't possibly understand. Oh, I understand, buddy. I understand you're banana sandwich making batshit nuts.

How many times can one critique a painting of an apple? Seriously, there is a shit ton of artists that have painted a shit ton of apples. They call it still life. I call it bullshit. Think you're so damn cultured? OK, wise ass, which apple below is art and which one isn't?

Apple #1 Or Apple #2?

Give up?

If you guessed that Apple #1 is not art and is, indeed a photo of an honest to goodness apple, hit your head against the desk as hard as you can. WRONG! The first image is some still life bullshit that oddly centers on still life that looks exactly like a damn picture. Apple #2 is actually an image of a Rome apple found on the Washington Apple Commission's variety page. Feel art smart yet? Sure you do, you lying bastard.

Perhaps the only canvas art more infuriating than myriads of apples on tables, apples in bowls, apples with pears, and apples with touch screens are the plethora of awkward and straight forward odd paintings of supposed human beings. I listened to the MP3 the museum staff strapped on us like National Geographic explorers tagging radio transmitter collars on polar bears. The collection of dry, unfunny, painfully pompous "experts" droned on and on about the "cheeky, " "bold, " and "brazen" ways artists like Cezanne painted goofy ass portraits of the human form that couldn't exist in real time or space. Maybe the message is wasted on me. Maybe Cezanne couldn't really draw people so he made up some cock and bull story about the figures representing "harmony" and "peace." No, that dude stomping around the beach isn't grossly disproportionate, he's "powerful" and a "liberation to young artists of the time." Shit, I guess I have a completely different definition of liberation.

Liberation of Paris. Hmmm, I guess the French forgot that a bunch of
stupid Brits and Americans saved them from the Germans. Strange.

The Soviet "liberation" of Auschwitz.

The Beatnik liberation? This is one of the "liberation" events the disembodied voice on the MP3
was talking about? "Beatnik" was code for unemployed, speed balling slacker.

So, what? I don't get art? BFD. But friends, Romans, countrymen, shut your yaps for a second and hear me. Or, at the very least, take a look at this shit Cezanne cranked out.

The Bather (1855 - 1857)

This portrays a man in thought. I'm not so sure it's the man in the painting as it was Cezanne, five days before his deadline.

SHIT! I suck at drawing torsos. Why the fuck did I make his hands red? Was there a murder I forgot to depict? Fuck it. He's thinking. Yeah... he's in a state of deep contemplation. That'll work. Then no one will realize the poorly drawn mini skirt around his junk.

Bather With Outstretched Arms (1877-1878)

Yup, another male bather getting ready for a dip in his birthday suit. Cezanne's love for "active" male bathers was only trumped by his complete lack of pizazz for their titles. I half expected to see one of his slap together finger paintings titled: "Rectangular canvas with paint and... shit."

What was really going on in Cezanne's head:

Shit! Why the fuck do I keep painting bathers? And males ones at that. The Realtor told me this goddamn house had a view of a nude beach. Fucker didn't say it was an all male nude beach. Alright, what's that dude doing over there? Windmills? Why is a full grown adult spinning windmills on the beach? Oh, I didn't see the bicycle helmet near by. Is that Zola's kid. Ah shit, it is. That kid isn't playing with a full deck. OK, fuck it. The whole thing looks like a retarded kid pretending to be an airplane (whatever that is, right?). I'll smudge up the face a little so you can't tell it's Zippy the Pinhead over there. Damn it! The shorts still look like a friggin mini skirt. WTF?

Canuck Yankee Lumberjack at Old Orchard Beach, Maine'

Now this one isn't even one of Cezanne's pieces. It's actually a work by Marsden Hartley, an American Modernist painter who was introduced to his life's work via Cezanne and another nut job, Picasso. For the most part, Hartley went his own way with literature and travels. But he sure had enough time to kill to pretty much duplicate the work of one of his idols. Take a look at that painting above. Notice something familiar?

How about that shit? If Hartley was sitting beside Cezanne in art class and these two paintings were handed in, some American Modernist would have a date with a suspension.

I've got it! I'll call it a tribute! Yeah, it influenced me. Yeah, that's the ticket. See? There's the same mini skirt dealy only mine is hot pink. It's a homage! Yeah, yeah. That's the ticket!