I am an artist. My only goal in life is to sculpt, to create brilliant masterpieces that express the visible and the invisible. The real and the unreal. The beauty and the beast.
My process for making art knows no boundaries. But it knows limits. When a stranger walks up to me and says “Your sculptures have a child-like quality,” I have to smile. Because they don’t realize that I only use child-free material.
I believe that we are all related. You are my cousin and I am your Uncle. Therefore, by supporting my creativity, you are actually supporting your Uncle.
The following is my “(Grade) Eight Mile” Sculpture Gallery. Please proceed with passion.
“(Grade) Eight Mile”
The inspiration for this edible tour de force came to fruition back in junior high.
I had just found out that my friend, G, had been talking about me behind my back. “She’s totally bad-mouthing you, B,” my classmate Lana said. “She’s telling people that you think you’re all that but really you’re not.”
G and I had been BFFs for five and a half months. The idea that she would talk smack about me was devastating.
Was Lana lying? Or did I just not see the writing on the wall?
Turns out I hadn’t seen the writing. At lunchtime, Lana took me to the bathroom and showed me.
I was livid. I needed to do something to save my rep. But what?
I couldn’t fight her because I promised my Dad that I wouldn’t hit it until marriage. I decided that the only logical answer was to challenge her to an insult rap battle.
I told Lana to tell Chrissy to tell G to meet me at the bike racks the next day. “Four o’clock sharp,” I said. “And she better not be late. I have accordion lessons at five.”
Little did I know then, that accordion lessons were the least of my worries.
This irony-infused piece was dry-heaved from my mind the next day.
When I arrived, G was already there, along with half the school.
“Let’s do this,” she said angrily.
“It’s already been done,” I said, even angrilier.
We flipped a coin. G was up first.
yo, yo, yo yo yo yo yo yo whuts up?
is that your face or did your neck throw up?
get ready cause im about to take you to school
when I’m done ur gonna look like a fool
i’d bet you ten dollars, okay maybe more
but i don’t bet suckers i buy them at the store
i’m funky and fresh and I don’t care what you think
everyone says that you totally stink
The crowd went wild. I had to admit she was good. But I was ready to bring it on.
i’m not the one who stinks in this place
it’s probably your breath blowing back in your face
u think that ur smarter than all of the rest
but what did you get on our last English test?
u got a B cuz you’re worse than the best.
you think your style is totally whack
i don’t know who told you that jack
my granny called and she wants it back.
.After a short intermission/smoke break (no inhaling), it was time to bring it on again.
your mom is so ugly she can’t get a date
nobody believed when her period was late
she said yo im pregnant im having a baby
your daddy just laughed and said she had rabies
Oh, and sorry to hear about your accident hey
what do u mean u were born that way?
why you always gotta play me like that?
listen up yo cuz i ain’t gonna lie
i know u are but what am I?
your mamma so ugly she make onions cry
i thought that we would be friends forever
G-unit and Bschooled, enemies never
we’d marry the Coreys and live in New York
too bad you ended up being a dork
are you talking Corey Feldman and Haim?
i always thought they were both kinda lame
Ricky Schroeder was way more my game
we used to be friends till I heard what u said
u told Chazz Palmer that I still get breast fed
that’s why I told him that you were inbred
look im sorry but u started it mack
u said my hair color was naturally black
and i also use kleenex to fill out my rack
don’t u understand that’s totally whack?
This visual sixty-four thousand dollar question was mentally sculpted as we waited for the judges to make their final decision.
Unfortunately, everyone had already left by then so we didn’t have any judges. After forty-seven inconclusive rounds of rock paper scissors, we declared it a tie.
*Although this piece looks the exact same as “The Writing On The Stall,” trust me when I say that it’s not.
In the end, G and I called a truce. We also decided to combine our skillz to make a record, G would lace the track and I’d be responsible for locking the flow.
**Halfway through recording we got into another fight when I accidentally went to third base with a guy she said she didn’t like but really she did. Needless to say, if I had been a mind reader back then it never would have happened and our record would have been a hit.
That night, I asked my Magic 8-Ball Paper sculpture if I had the skillz to be a famous pasta sculptor. And you know what it said?
Fo’ shizzle it’s hazy*, yo!
*FYI- Hazy means “Yes” in insult rap battle talk.
Thank-you for checking out my pasta sculpture gallery. If you would like to purchase any of these carb-enriched wonderments, email me at email@example.com for a price list.