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!

Unempoyment Axioms That Need to DIE

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Company Mascots We Want to Send on a Death March

By Roode

I'm on a roll! To continue my "Things on TV I Want to Physically Hurt, Then Shit On" series, I'd like to expand my musings beyond brain hemorrhage causing jingle jangle commercial jingles. Yes, once they get into your head, you'll cut your own ears off to be free of the pain. But, we can do without ears. You tell me what the shit in this world is really worth listening too. Don't give me that artsy fartsy answer of "music." I love Alice In Chains just as much as Ren and Tresckow, but I would sacrifice hearing some of the best heroine and death oriented lyrics in the known universe if it meant no more shit grinning jingles.

Sure, Vincent van Gogh was batshit insane, but maybe there was a method to his madness.
He would only have to hear 50% of these ear canal rotting songs.

Our eyes, ladies and gentlemen... what would we be without our eyes? We would bump into shit constantly, be unable to watch Sons of Anarchy, and would miss out on some serious eye candy during the summer months.

Seriously, if I couldn't enjoy sights like this, I might as well be dead.

*Note: If you are blind and offended by my statement... No. Forget it. What the fuck are you doing on the web in the first place. This shit doesn't come in Braille.

Why would anyone even consider plucking out their own eyes? Seeing your parents bumping uglies on the kitchen table? Getting a glimpse of ANY man in a speedo? Well, yeah. But, what are the odds of that shit happening. Eh, the speedo thing plaques Europe, I'll give you that. However, there is a more sinister force that penetrates your inner sanctum like Michael Jackson... NO. Not this week. I'm nixing all MJ jokes from this damn column.

What the shit was I saying? That's right. There's a more sinister force out there that knows where you live and can get to you anytime it wants. It comes disguised as sequential images of douche bag wanna be celebrities, chefs, and (not enough) Hayden Panettiere.

Trust me. This Canadian is saluting the red, white, and blue.

Television provides another conduit for ass hair pulling, fucktarded bullshit devised to drive you tin foil hat wearing insane. What am I talking about now? Mascots. Company mascots, spokes people, whatever you want to call them, are an outright assault on all things ocular. Sonsabitches are everywhere. No matter where you flip to, there's always another one of those shit painting jackasses prancing around on TV. We want them to be deported to concentration camps. Admit it. I know you're thinking about it every time you see another asshat doing cart wheels for Vagisil. Shit like...

Burger King: The "King"
You know what's a brilliant advertising idea? Give up? How about creating a mascot that embodies every viewer's childhood fears? Smooth job, Burger King. You fuckers are making sandwiches without bread.

What is this thing supposed to communicate? It's sure as hell isn't the flame broiled taste of a grill kissed bacon cheeseburger. Using a stone faced, silent, pantsless creep with all the charm of a rapist doesn't quite hit the mark. The King is there, watching some dude sleep. He's there at some chick's bedroom window. The fucker is shoving his hand into random people's pants pockets on the street. Right, he's "giving money back." I'm sure it has nothing to do with copping a feel on an unsuspecting pedestrian's junk.

The King's next step to deflower Whopper "virgins."

Geico: Kash
While we're on the subject of outright nonsensical bullshit, let's devote some time to this bugged eyed, Mysto & Pizzi jamming motherfucker. Why, it's the money you could be saving with Geico! You asshole! That's cash you could have spent on porn, Quaaludes, or a hooker (sometimes the three come as a package).

This is another creepy bastard that just stares. It doesn't say anything, it's an inanimate stack of filthy 5 dollar bills. What the fuck does it want? So what? You opted for State Farm instead of Geico. Does that mean you're going to be haunted by this googly eyed prick until you switch? Here's an idea, pick the fucker up, rip his eyes off, and hit a strip club. Tear him apart, one bill at a time and cram them in a stripper's g-string. Now THAT makes financial sense!

Pictured: A much better investment than GM.

Geico: Cavemen
Geico is such a mascot shit generator, I had to put it on the list twice. I was on board the Geico caveman commercials in the beginning. They were short, funny, and semi witty. But, just like everything else on TV, the Man had to bludgeon our skulls with a once good thing. These mop heads are almost as tired and played out as Paris Hilton. Or, pretty much anything on the E! network (except The Soup, although McHale's NBC show sucks a massive amount of slug sphincter).

When did it all go downhill? The commercials were still bearable until around 2007. Shit, I was still drinking the Neanderthal kool aid when they launched their own micro site. Then, the executives had to piss all over it. They threw the caveman concept down on the ground, unzipped, and rained yellow all over its parade. You know what I'm talking about. This piece of rotting warthog shit: the TV series. I knew this was going to be the death knell for the whole concept. What made the commercials work was the quick timing and brevity. Stretch out that concept for a full 22 minutes and you have a televised suicide note. It redefined bad and not in the "so bad it's good" way. This was Teddy Z bad. OK, some of you children may not get that reference. How about this one? The show was "Jay Leno Show" bad.

Above: A crime against humanity.

Aflac: The Aflac Duck
How do you move insurance? Dub one of the most annoying voices in the history of mankind over a duck. I don't have anything against the duck, per say. I like ducks. Ducks are fine. I guess this is more of a hatred for Gilbert Gottfried.

Wikipedia identifies his "distinctively loud, obnoxious, rasping, grating voice" as a trademark. OK, fine. If that's the case, then sufferating pustules are the Bubonic Plague's tradmark. Barbed wire and zyclon b are Germany's. While we're at it, we can say male on male rape to banjo music is the trademark of the US South. No? Those aren't trademarks? Just because something's associated someone, object, or country doesn't necessarily mean it's a trademark. It just means Godfrey's act is a big old pile of annoying smothered in shit sauce. I wish that fucking duck would peck your larynx out.


Six Flags: Mr. Six
Take a good, long look at this fucker. That's right, take it all in. We don't even have a Six Flags within a thousand mile radius of here. But, that doesn't stop those corporate ass cracks from barraging us with this creepy, latex laden, fake geriatric ball buster.

Mr. Six, as they call him, dances like a scary epileptic patient to shitty Euro-trash pop music. If that wasn't enough, they gave the asshole his own bus to, apparently, roam around the country and pick up children. I wonder if this guy hangs out with the King. Jesus, now I feel unclean.

It's no wonder why these dill holes have gone bankrupt. Hey! Assholes! Your mascot is freaking everybody the fuck out! What the hell is wrong with you? You would have a better chance of dragging people to your playground of death if you advertised all the random animal attacks and appendage severing incidents.

I just don't have the words.

Sincerely,
Roode