(Originally poseted In Artmachine tribe)

The hardest thing about art is not being able to bring to life ALL the brilliant ideas that fill your head and carry you into lofty realms of ecstasy, all the masturbatory impulses that drive you to stroke yourself in solitude and spew the flotsam and jetsam of your giddily unbridled self indulgence onto the phobic public, thus eliciting hillbilly yawns and bored scratching of nether regions and scatological catcalls from all the creepo fuckos and elongated stick heads who just don’t get it: that you are a genius, pure and simple, that the products of your profound imaginings and finely-tuned motor skills constitute the next paradigm shift in the historical course of ART and for that you should be caressed and stroked and feted and elevated and given stupendous amounts of cash and drugs and ivited to participate in sexual experiences of your own natural persuasion and installation of your works in the most prestigious galleries and museums and in the private collections of the most discerning patrons and the corporate collections of leading edge industrial barons… but, nooooooo… all you get is pinched noses stuck high in the air from all the so-called “art dealers”, who treat you like you walked into their sanctum with shit on your shoes; and who have the first dollar they ever earned shoved so far up their asses that you can see it in their mouths, as they dismiss your perfectly and courageously conceived and remarkably rendered windows on a reality that no adventurer has ever explored, with clipped, sardonic rebuffs and sniffs and snorts of derision and their “Maybe you should consider a career change because this.. this.. this juvenile, puerile, unimaginative [UNIMAGINATIVE??!!] derivative dabbling is the farthest thing from art, and nothing any other credible gallery in this town would ever consider hanging, so give up and crawl back under the rock from whence you dragged your insignificant exoskeleton” kind of reaction -- advice that causes you to barely keep from punching the asinine, pretentious “ART” gigolo creeps like that square in the fucking proboscis except that the time you spend in the slammer would deprive the world of the gifts of your genius, deprive the critics of something meaty and real to sink their teeth into, deprive the history of art of something very precious and rare and intelligent and eternal…

Ya’ know what I’m sayin’?