(Grade) Eight Mile


Artist Statement

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”


“Oh, Gnocchi Didn’t!” -Bschooled

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?




“The Writing on The Stall”- Bschooled

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.




“Downward Spiral(s)”- Bschooled

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.




“Sticks and Stones” -Bschooled

.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?



“Penne For Your Thoughts?” -Bschooled

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.




“Tag Team” -Bschooled

*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?


“Magic Eight-Ball Paper Sculpture” -Bschooled

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 bschooled@hotmail.com for a price list.


B’s Unique Hosiery Sculptures




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”



“Hose That Guy?” -Bschooled

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.





“Yes. Yes, I Yam” -Bschooled

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.”





“Arm Eye Falling In Love?” -Bschooled

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.





“Hose Your Daddy?” -Bschooled

*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.





“What The…?” -Bschooled

*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.)





“So Long… Dickhead” -Bschooled

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 bschooled@hotmail.com.