I am a contemporary artist who specializes in avant-garde sculpture. While I am technically pure in spirit, I use my vivid imagination to create pieces that revolve around promiscuity and extreme lewdness.
When I sculpt, I usually begin with a few gentle kneads, then work intuitively, based on the music I hear in my head. One of my most notable works is of a scantily-clad raspberry beret, adorning the crown of an oversexed Rick Astley.
I can’t be sure why my hosiery sculptures sell, but they do. Maybe it’s because people are moved by my art. Or maybe it’s because I spot them the money. I haven’t really analyzed it.
If I am not communicating my sexual boundaries through sculpture, then I am not being myself. And if I am not being myself then who am I being? You? Your mother? Your second cousin first removed, perhaps? Riddle me that.
And finally, to answer the question I know you all are thinking, yes.
The answer is yes.
The following masterpieces are from my “Love Is A Battlefield” gallery. (Please enjoy maturely.)
“Love Is A Battlefield”
The inspiration for this sheer brilliance came to me in my early twenties, when I met my soul-mate at an environmental protest/speed dating event.
His name was Garfunkel. He had strapping calves and his thick, luxurious hair enshrouded his face like a veil, making him seem really mysterious.
He copped a squat beside me, and that’s when I noticed he was wearing an “I Hate Mondays” shirt.
“You do realize it’s Thursday, right?” I asked.
When he told me he was wearing it to protest the Government’s refusal to implement a three-day weekend, I knew it was love.
This visually edible tour de force came about when, after a few minutes of eco-friendly small talk, Garfunkel made his move.
“I don’t believe in email or telephones,” he said, handing me a faux quill pen and piece of tree bark, “but give me your address and I’ll swing by tomorrow for a vegan dinner.”
I couldn’t believe my luck. “Do vegans eat baby seal?” I asked, looking deep into his naturally-colored eyes.
But before he could answer the question, our time was up.
As I grudgingly made my way to the next guy, I heard him call after me.
“Hey whatsyourface…you still a virgin?”
Knowing deep down that doing it on an empty stomach didn’t count, I told him the truth. “Yes,” I said. “Yes, I yam.”
The next night I made him a dinner of fair trade lentils and “I Can’t Believe it’s Not Butter” tarts. After composting the leftovers, we went to the living room to watch a David Suzuki special.
We started kissing, and soon his biodegradable hand found the opening of my shirt. Suddenly I felt extremely vulnerable.Even though my BMI was in the borderline anorexic range, my fancy ass jeans and distorted body image gave me an aesthetically-unpleasing muffin top.
Thinking fast, I yanked his hand up towards my chest.
I knew it was a slutty thing to do, but it was the only way I could position myself so that my stomach caved in and my hip bones protruded sexily.
*Note: Because my Father is currently in the Witness Protection Program, I had to modify his appearance slightly.
Just as we got into a rhythm, Garfunkel called a time-out. “Are your parents home?” he asked. When I shook my head no, the game was back on.
A few minutes later he called another time out.
“Your Dad…he isn’t a cop, is he?”
When I told him the truth, that he was a mechanic who dabbled in pirating Satellite signals, the game was back on again. For real this time.
**Sadly, due to circumstances beyond his control, less than two minutes later the game was off again.
*While this piece may look like “Hose That Guy,” trust me when I say it’s not.
This inspirational “hot mess” was implanted into my cerebrum the next day, when an angry-looking girl with army shorts and KD Lang hair showed up at my doorstep.
“So, I hear you were out with my man last night” she said hatingly.
I was shocked. Because I always assumed that girls who didn’t shave their legs were lesbians, I had no idea what she was talking about.
“Are you talking “man” man? Or man man?” I asked.
“You know what I’m talking about,” she replied, even more hatingly.
Suddenly, I remembered the post-coital conversation Garfunkel and I had the night before. “Garfunkel,” I’d said, rubbing his pesticide-free chest, “Do UGG boots leave a carbon footprint?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “And also, I’m sleeping with someone else.”
Suddenly it all made sense. I felt like an idiot.
(But to be fair, it wasn’t like I could have known that by ‘sleeping’ he actually meant having sexual intercourse.)
This could very well be my most stimulating piece of all.
When I saw that K.D. was wearing a pair of eco-brass knuckles, I knew what I had to do.
“Fine! You can have him!” I said, throwing the friendship (with benefits) bracelet he’d given me on the ground and slamming the door in her face. Then, worried she might think I was a litterbug, I reached my arm through the doggie door and picked it up again.
The truth was, I already knew that Garfunkel and I would never last. The fact that he not only told her where I lived but was also standing behind her cheering her on, made me realize we wanted different things from life.
Besides, my parent’s dog was also named Garfunkel, and I could just imagine the looks on their faces if I told them about the time Garfunkel and I did it doggy style, or made some joke about Garfunkel’s bark being worse than his bite. Seeing as their Garfunkel was a pit bull, I could see why they’d be confused.
To distract myself from my broken heart, I pulled out my Magic 8-Ball Paper Sculpture and asked it if I had a future in avant-garde hosiery sculpting.
This is what it said:
They always do.
*Thank-you for letting my sculptures arouse your discerning visual palate. If you’d like to purchase any of these masterpieces (save for “Who’s Your Daddy” which is not for sale), please contact me at email@example.com.