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Sat, Nov. 1st, 2003, 07:19 pm
chriskarate: On the science of art:

So today, I'll be writing about art. Writing about art, for me, is much easier than arting about write (or something like that). Whereas writing about art takes a minimum amount of effort and skill to successfully put a concept across, arting about write, or whatever, requires the technical skill to put across an idea through clever use of applying certain powders and/or liquids to a certain hard surface in a precisely-controlled manner, in much the way that a window-cleaner cleans windows, but without the wiping-off, and with a more permanent medium. This is best exemplified in an incident that occurred at the Chrysler building in New York, where due to a bookkeeping error, the entire outside was painted a hot pink with precisely-placed white areas by a squad of unskilled oil-painters in scuba-gear who were playing Beethoven's 5th symphony on kazoos during the process (see: it was a really, really bad book-keeping error). When all things were sorted out, and the leader of the oil-painters was chatting with the leader of the building's window-cleaner force on how to best remedy the situation without poisoning the masses via paint residue, the following slice of conversation occurred:

Oil-Painter wipes a chunk of Cadmium Red from his brow, tossing it to the street and contributing to the rampant toxic pollution problem. "Well, it's a beaut nonetheless, ain't it?"

Window-Cleaner stares upwards at the building. "Yeah... .. Hey wait, is that man doing... something with himself?"

Oil-Painter stares at Window-Cleaner incredulously. ".. What?"

Window-Cleaner uhs. "... You know..."

Oil-Painter imagines himself impaling the bajebus out of Window-Cleaner with a sharpened giant novelty toothbrush, and then writing an article about it in his LiveJournal. "Harrumph! First of all, it's a woman, and she's wading through water. Second of all, I'm an artiste, and took some stylization liberties."

Window-Cleaner just sighs. "Why would you put a picture of a woman wading through water on the Chrysler Building, anyway? That wasn't skewed in the book-keeping error..."

And at about this point, Oil-Painter merely put on his scuba-mask, and walked away with his fingers in his ears and his eyes closed, playing a very noisy rendition of 'The Heart of Rock'n'Roll' on the kazoo. He then fell down an open manhole, and was never seen again (except by the Mole-People).

This completely factual story gathered entirely from very reliable news-sources in my imagination just goes to prove that writing about art is very much easier than arting about write. Therefore, today, I'm writing about art. But why, do you ask (and if you don't ask, you're a COMMUNIST so you'd better ask, commie scum), am I writing about art today? Well, I'll answer your asking: It's because I am incredibly horrible at art. Abandon all your perceptions of my art, and know that I am very, very bad at art. Your average computer-programmer's stick-figures doing lewd sexual acts to each other between lines of a credit report (the solution to the ages-old question of why all credit-card people are insane and sadistic as all fuck) would make better paintings than most of my sloppy slop. The best I could hope for in life is to sell my paintings to people who don't know art, don't know what they like, and will gladly accept any piece of shit that is shoved down their throats by anyone. I expect these people to be living somewhere in the Pacific Ocean in an invisible flying city made entirely out of Gummi-Bears, but that's another story for another time. If you still don't believe in my adamant stance about my awful awfulness in art, please observe the following conversation from the average art-class I attend:

Teacher looks at the clock on the wall. "Okay everyone, time to show everyone else your work.."

I just shiver while placing my painting in front of the class, and hope it doesn't cause immediate blindness, as did Medusa's gaze to unsuspecting travelers in the ancient land of Uber-Topia or wherever the hell that was. Oh, and Medusa turned people to stone, but not blind, so they had to stare at a wall until they were broken down into sand or something. "Uh, okay.."

Other Student satisfactorily beams at his handiwork. "I decided to go for a painting technique more reminiscent of the Renaissance, much like Jan Vermeer, but with a bit of cubist ideals not unlike those employed in Picasso's cubism period thrown in. This wall-sized canvas depicts the Roman gods in battle against the Greek gods, and is a social commentary on the absurdity of multiple religions trying to adapt in reaction to each other and cultural diversity."

Teacher looks the painting over. "Hmm... A+. And what about you, Narrator?"

I just gesture towards my painting. "Well.. it was something I doodled up, and I just kind of went from there."

Teacher looks at the painting, and then looks at it sideways. "..Hmm... .. Hey wait, is that man doing something with himself?"

I just stare. "That's not a man.. it's a painting describing the act of writing through clever use of the visual medium."

Teacher looks at it a certain way, and.. "Oh. I just wasn't sure, since it looks like you're using a sort of abstract minimalism. 'Figures of sticks', so to speak."

I wipe the sweat from my brow, covering my ass like a man caught by an entire police-brigade with his ass uncovered in a society where those with asses that aren't covered are burnt at the stake and then fed to the poor. "Heh, yeah, that's exactly what I was trying to do. I can draw good stuff when I want to, really."

So, if that hasn't swayed your opinion about the validity of my opinion in conjunction with the concept ot the complete horrid horridness of my art, then your opinion is unswayable by others' completely factual imaginary evidence, much like Superman's unhealthily bulging chest is unswayable by the speediest of bullets. It just doesn't happen, because he's Superman, and his chest is a piece of matter specifically designed to deflect bullets without being harmed, whilst wooing girls into love, to be cryogenically frozen and 'saved for later' in his Secret Base of Infinite Necrophilic Solitude. So if your opinion is akin to Superman's abs, then go away before I call the police, you corpse-fucker.

Now, I highly doubt writing about art would be easier than arting about write for some people. Unluckily, none of the 'some people' exist, currently. Maybe in a culture where everything has a visual representation, and instead of a written language people use pictures, and instead of talking people run around and draw pictures exactly representing their thoughts, and instead of written laws they have pretty pictures that people need to pose exactly like three times a day or have one of their fingers chopped off, someone would draw or paint something exactly chronicling every bit of the act of writing, but would then be called a heretic and burned at the stake and fed to the poor for even thinking of the idea that language could be written. Damned COMMUNIST scum.

Art is, in many ways, an undeveloped science. In this age of microbiology and genetic engineering and bulletproof glass that turns into champagne when tapped in a precise rhythm and cars that travel back in time if only they could be supplied 1.21 gigawats of electricity via a lightning bolt, what does art have? It may have more permanent and vivid colors in paint, more advanced mediums and varnishes, and that lovely Joy of Painting show used to differentiate the idiots (see: people who watch the show) from smart people (see: people who watch the show in secret and completely deny that they watch it and then state that everyone who watches it is an idiot), but what else? I'll tell you what else: NOTHING. Where're the canvases that can levitate above the ground, whilst producing delicious cancer-curing Gummi Savers from ventilation air-ducts and emanating precious genetic-mutation rays so that everyone immediately becomes a good-looking supergenius? I'll tell you where: NOWHERE. Where are the paintbrushes that, when used to apply paint to a surface, not only make a painting automatically look good, but open a portal to a dimension made entirely out of money, cause everyone within a five-mile radius to achieve Nirvana or the Holy Ghost or Shiva's Happy Happy Soopah Fun Blessing or whatever the heck they'd like, put all criminals in jail, and instantly advance technology to the hyper-advanced space-traveling converting-to-energy-and-back living-forever-or-ascending-to-the-afterlife-of-your-choice level? Yep, you guessed it: THEY DON'T EXIST YET. What caused this horrific lapse in technological breakthroughs in this field? My guess, as a Certified All-Knowing Expert in Everything, would be that it was the iron fist of COMMUNISM. Damn you, COMMUNISM! If you don't believe me, please observe this transcript of completely real, non-fabricated events:

Stalin smiles. "I have finally stunted the growth of art as a science for an indefinite period of time! Hurrah, hurrah!"

Mao grins. "Yes! We have done it! Super happy time, one hundred percent!"

Hitler slowly shakes his head in happy disbelief. "You're both so COOL!"

Stalin just.. stares. "Hitler, everyone knows you don't exist."

Hitler sighs. "I guess you're right..." And then disappears in a puff of genocide.

Now do you believe me? That was completely un-doctored footage, from the actual physical plane that doesn't just exist in my head but is really real like a very real thing made of completely real, real stuff. It doesn't get any more real than that, and I say that from experience. It's real, man.

But anyways, this has led me to my inevitable conclusion: If art will ever flourish again as a science, then it'll need a good shove in the right direction. But once I've completed my plans, I won't have just given it a shove; I'll have kicked it over the field-goal posts, out of the stadium, and into orbit, with the gigantic robotic mechanized foot of knowledge. Beware the mighty foot of knowledge! I have assembled several elite knowledgeable knowledge-loving knowledge-a-holics for a team of knowledge-powered knowledge-seekers seeking the knowledge-filled knowledge of art as a science. They are heavily-trained in the field of being able to tell me that they know a lot about art and science, and are very charitably doing this for room and board, mostly because they were all made homeless by the horrible scourge of art-science-toppling COMMUNISM.

The Omega Art-Science Team ('cause Omega sounds helluva cool) have been assembled at the Spearhead Moving-Forward-Fast Uber-Science-Facility, which is a fancy name I like to use for a big cabin I bought out deep in the woods when the real-estate was dirt-cheap out here. The facility is equipped with all the fantastically cool luxuries of a modern scientist-place, such as running water, somewhat reliable electricity, a 56k internet connection, and a fully-functional precisely-controlled holy-hell-that's-huge reality-manipulation chamber that we don't know the dire ramifications of blindly toying around with and are chastised and probed in uncomfortable places by extraterrestrials over every other night. Damnit that gets annoying after a while.

But enough about science and science-y things. What you really want to know about is the wonderful, shiny people and assorted other beings on my team of art-scientists! Well, I'm not one to disappoint you from your deepest desires that may or may not have a sexual origin, so I'm happy to oblige. Spank me, baby. The team consists of the following:

Paul "Big Bear" Maskikovichinsteinenburgenholm
Credentials: The first man to ever successfully lift a two-ton truck entirely with his beard, and with no safety-net or hernia-belt. Also the first man whose intestines forcibly removed themselves through a severe hernia in his abdominal cavity, ejecting themselves nearly five-hundred feet away. Knows a lot about life, death, and plumbing, and has won many a bar-brawl against Hell's Angels, grizzly-bears, and combinations of the two.
Roles on the team: Lifting Heavy Things And Then Screaming In Agony, Killing The Heck Out Of Genetically-Engineered Paint-Creatures, Cursing Loudly In A Thick Accent From One Of Those Weird European Countries, Eating Lots Of Food And Ticking Everyone Off, Offering Strangely Nonsensical Advice That Turns Out To Be True In The End And If Only We'd Listened To Him We Wouldn't Have Gotten Into This Situation In The First Place, Winning Bar Brawls While Heavily Drunk And Blindfolded And With Both Arms Tied Behind His Back.

Aioeai Eeaoieuu Ea Ae Oiaeuiuioiae
Credentials: Has the ability to summon creatures from other dimensions after a ten-year astral journey to the magical planet of Iiiiiiiie Ooooooi Ktooooooi Boooooooof, where she learned of the magically magical vowel-magic system, and then things kind of got a bit fuzzy and she woke up in a dumpster in a trash-bag along with a dead horse, ballerina limbs, and aborted fetuses. Is a sensual and beautiful seductress, complete with every sexually-transmitted disease that exists.
Roles on the team: Giving Frustratingly Vague And Mysterious Spiritually-Linked Advice On Everyday And/Or Crisis-Related Matters, Being Sexy And Distracting Coworkers With Said Sexiness, Cooking Up Wild Theories That Somehow Result In The Creation Of Some Strange And Wondrous Yet Fatally Flawed Technology Or Creature, Shooting The Good Guy At The Last Minute Before He Shuts Down The Operation And Then Boiling His Body In A Tank Of Acid.

Achmed "Token Black Guy" Brown
Credentials: After a freak-accident with a bucket of fried chicken and corn-bread, went from ghetto-blasting gangster to super-genius scientist. Has a heart of gold and a stomach of iron and intestines of rubber tubing from an early-childhood bleach-related incident caused by a weird lady who thought she was Jesus Buddha Christ, and because of this, has since replaced the rest of his insides with neat robotic stuff like lasers and microwaves and toy cars that run for twenty minutes after being charged for half a day as well. This would have earned him the nickname of "Human Cyborg Jack-Knife Thing-Guy", except that sounds kind of lame, and he's not just any black guy but the token black guy, and that has to be stated somewhere, somehow.
Roles On The Team: Being A Living Weapon Full Of Lasers And Pointy Metal Things, Osmosing Mass Quantities Of Fried Chicken Through His Skin, Working Machinery Into Amazingly Precise Forms Designed To Create Anything From A Magic Paintbrush-Wand To An Invincible Divine Being Made Entirely Out Of Pudding And Illustration-Board, Always Having The Right Tool At-Hand (Or At-Foot Or At-Abdomen Or At-Shoulder) For The Current Problem, Saying Witty One-Liners To Break The Ice In A Dire Situation, Playing Any Sport Like A Champion The Moment He Gets Into It.

K'tork Brae'c'kac'k'oee
Credentials: The mandatory anthropomorphic-wolf-creature-with-a-stupid-name, as a weird-science laboratory straight out of an early 90's camp horror flick wouldn't be complete without one. Has vowed revenge against his former overlords and creators in the American Pig Regime Government of Death, and although a confirmed terrorist with a large bounty on his head, has valuable knowledge about science and assorted other science-y stuffs, and how to lick yourself in places normally not-lickable (such as, uh, elbows. Yeah). May or may not be rabid at any given time, especially while exposed to any form of Martha Stewart. Is also rumored to have forged an unholy alliance with the Mole-People.
Roles on the team: Suitable Replacement For Token Black Guy On Nightshift, Being The Cute Talking Creature-Thing Between Episodes Of Paranoia, Suicide-Bombing Organized Governmental Factions And Then Being Reborn Under The Full-Moon, Making Surprisingly Intelligent Decisions Resulting In Discoveries Of New Volatile Elements And Things Like That.

Doctor Jimmy-Joe Jeffery James Jebadiah Red-Eye Smith
Credentials: The most skilled and respected member of the Omega Art-Science Team, Jimmy-Joe says he was laughed at by all those "respectable" "science"-"institutions", tossed out on the street with no money after a completely unrelated gambling-and-alcohol binge, and was doomed to the life of standing on a street corner and ranting about heavily advanced science while chugging a bottle of Triple-Sec and injecting used heroin directly into his cranial cavity. That is, until he was hired as an art-scientist. He is feared and respected by the rest of the team - maybe because of his ability to make people's heads explode if they look at him funny, maybe not - and has made the most progress of any of the art-scientists towards the ultimate goal of making art back into a respected science. Has assembled many a paint-golem and canvas-hovercar, and has only been on the job for several work-hours in total between snorting crack off used dildos and crying in a bathtub full of vodka.
Roles on the team: Consuming Any Alcohol That Exists (Even American Beer) Without Flinching Nor Vomiting Nor Passing Out Nor Dying No Matter How Much He Drinks, Building Up Both Hyper-Advanced Paintbrush-Androids And Mental Instability With Very Basic Tools Such As A Hammer And Bad Self-Esteem, Causing Random Things To Explode Via Strange Telekinetic Powers Stemming From Immunity To Every Drug On The Market And Resulting Withdrawal, Ruling Over Hordes Of Reanimated Liquor Bottles With An Iron Fist.

It's kind of sad, though; there was originally a sixth member of the team; he was one of the Mole-People, and knew a lot about how the universe works, thanks to his peoples' secret knowledge going back to the beginning of time. However, he was burned at the stake and then fed to the poor for the ridiculous notion that there was a world above, let alone that he was going to live there.

But as one can probably tell, these professionals have already made a gigantic leap of progress in art-science, in much the same way a tadpole makes a gigantic leap out of the water when Haley's Comet is visible in the sky and becomes a frog via the fantastic radioactive magic of cosmic rays (hi, Tati!) (I don't care what all the normal scientists say; this is what really happens; I have proof, damnit). We have already built a veritable army of levitating magic-canvas-carpets manned by animated paintbrushes full of glowing green paint derived from the ankles of elk, and this is only after the first few days, and not counting the art-scientists' individual side-projects! Why, byu the end of the year, we'll probably have developed so many wonderful things, we'll be revered as gods, or at least people-who-make-wonderful-and-cool things! It's so wonderfully humbling, and yet at the same time, makes us all feel like gods, gods high above normal inbred stupid men who are incapable of seeing the true wonders of science because of their lowly stupidity and how they don't deserve to live if they're going to be such a waste of matter and whatnot.

Also, if assembling the Omega Art-Science Team has taught me anything else other than most "regular" scientists are pitiful meat-sacks undeserving of life, it's that.. uhh.. it's that.. .. Okay, so I haven't learned anything else. But have no worry; we will reeducate the public in the ways of art-science, with our beautiful hand-crafted soul-eating watercolor-paper, and army of dried-gouache tanks that morph into submarines in water or airplanes when flying, and are manned by invincible gesso-brushes capable of looking at people and turning them into pieces of wood. Fear not, general public; you will soon be freed from your bounds of "reality" by artistic freedom, and led to a utopian future of talking marble statues coated with acrylic paint who will make sure that you never have to think of anything, for you are all meat-sacks, and unable to see the true glory, spectrum, and potential of fully-realized art-science!

Appendix I:

The Mole-People don't really exist to anyone other than those who believe in them, due to an unusual personality quirk that causes them to become nonexistent when in the company of a skeptic or a pelt-hunter. They have no association with modern furries, who, although they would be powerful and perverted allies, never get out enough to see their full potential. Also, the Mole-People believe that everything outside their underground city-realm is made entirely out of dearly chocolate pudding that kills on impact, and that the 'surface' is, indeed, their city. The concept of outer-space is preposterous to them, because so deep-rooted is their puddingverse-mythology that they can only imagine the universe as being made entirely out of pudding, and dismiss it as preposterous, because everyone knows that when pudding becomes dense enough, it doesn't form a star, but instead forms a delicious - albeit deadly, as pertaining to their beliefs - clump of brownies.

Appendix II:

The Oil-Painter, upon arriving in the Mole-People's realm, was immediately burned at the stake and then not fed to the poor, as it was believed that he was made entirely out of toxic chocolate-pudding.

Appendix III:

Window-Cleaner cleaned the windows of the Chrysler Building; he cleaned them helluva good. He then went on to be promoted to book-keeper, causing a record low of two snafus in his twenty-year career - one causing the buying out of five pages in the New York Times to expose the secrets of the Mole-People, and the other causing the buying out of twenty-three acres of mountaintop real-estate for a ballet academy.

The Mole-People went on to have a cult following, most of whom believed them to be the spawn of Michael Jackson and a deformed rabbit, much in the same way as the Mole-People believed said following were made out of clumps of toxic chocolate-pudding.

No ballerinas survived the infamous windstorm of '96 during their outdoor rendition of Swan Lake. The windstorm was rumored to have been caused by a disfigured swan from five dimensions up; these rumors are unverified.

Appendix IV:

Communists aren't really that bad. .. Well, maybe they are, depending on how you look at it, but Communism is portrayed slightly unfairly in this writing.

Appendix V:

Black people are cool, intelligent, and I have nothing against them. Achmed "Token Black Guy" Brown is just a freak.

Appendix VI:

Was Mao even the name of that Communist dictator in China? I forget.

Appendix VII:

I am a very lonely, sad individual, with no life to speak of, which allowed me to set aside the time to write this. It was very therapeutic, in that this writing is placing my problems solely on the fragile, brittle backs of the readers, and will allow me to point and laugh with glee at their twisted, paralyzed bodies whereupon they finish reading.

Appendix VIII:

Cosmic rays are copyright Flashfire, and used without permission. All rights reserved.

Appendix IX:

The other oil-painters are now selling their scuba-gear and kazoos for dirt-cheap on eBay. Their painting skills have not improved, and may be indicative that they have some Mole-Person blood in them. If you understand this, you understand the great majority of artists today, and why they should be window-cleaners instead.

Sat, Nov. 1st, 2003, 06:46 pm
chriskarate: PREPARE FACE FOR SKULLFUCKING IN 3.. 2.. 1..

Ah, childhood emotional trauma. We've all experienced it, and whether it was in the form of your mother telling you that you're a pussy for not taking the hit in football, your father for berating you over not setting the table properly, your big sister telling you that you're a cocksucking little Amish midget with one leg shorter than the other and defenestrating you from the third window of a building onto a crumbled sidewalk full of sharpened knives and broken glass and fecal matter and then driving a steamroller with spikes on the huge rolling-thing to make sure you're dead but then not really killing you and having you come back as a horrifically disfigured and wonderfully powerful supervillain who is forced to wear the skins of their enemies on their head because they have no bones in the front of their face and the mere sight of their gory and inhuman visage is capable of driving full-grown men - nay, full-grown men with cybernetic anti-fear-and-insanity implants - to pants-shitting fearful insanity, none can deny that it leaves a permanent impression on our fragile cocksucking little Amish midget with one leg shorter than the other lives.

I like to think that I, in my ever-gloomy-and-hopeless upper-middle-class tall white teenage male plight, have had it tough in the sixteen-odd years of my life. Therefore, this gives me full reign to give one-hundred-percent-reliable lectures on subjects including but not limited to the full and complete list of effects of childhood trauma as dictated by me (the smartest person in the world, me-certified), glass-blowing, skydiving, flame-swallowing, jumping into tanks of hydrochloric acid, eating an entire bottle of Tylenol in one sitting, falling headfirst off tall skyscrapers, and the comparison between the ancient Egyptian god-king Akhenaton and the later Roman lord Augustus Ceasar and the trends in the respective art-periods that they spawned and/or heavily influenced; however, today, I'll merely be sticking to the extreme former. Sux2bu.

Times were tough, growing up in a house we owned, on a three-acre piece of land, with dad working the day-shift as boss of a real-estate company and mom being a very intelligent and forgiving mother who nary said a bad word to children, let alone do anything to harm them in any way. Obviously, in such situations, the children turn to harsh infighting, and my big sister and I were, sadly, no exception; we'd fallen through the cracks, and as I was a good eleven years younger and half as tall, she had full reign of the house. She was allowed to take cereal-boxes and pieces of chocolate into her room, while all I was allowed to do in my rather large room with a cathedral-ceiling and skylight was to scatter out my numerous toys from wall to wall and contemplate the agony of childhood. But oh no, it didn't stop there. Much like an elder squirrel eating the squirrel-tribe's entire batch of baby and adolescent squirrels whole and alive because one of them gave off the mental thought-waves of thinking about the elder's stash of acorns - which, as all good squirrels know, doesn't exist and is just a figment of the godless freethinkers' imaginations - my big sister ate my six-year-old dignity (said dignity consisting of running around with Play-Doh on my fingers and pretending to be the Monster From That Scary Movie That Mommy And Daddy Wouldn't Let Me Watch) whole, via the unholy bulldozer-chute-prison-cell-orphanage-poverty-crippling-homeless-double-plus-ungood-tool of sarcasm. What's that I hear your thought-waves say? Sarcasm? Yes, sarcasm. An endless orgy of "Oh, yeah RIGHT"s, "What-everrrrr"s, "SURE you will"s, and their ilk, rubbing their proverbial endlessly thrusting male sexual organs of blood and death against my innocence and hope, and thrusting them away in a similar way that a hooker that ran out of crack and sex and didn't get beaten by her pimp enough would also be thrusted away by the throbbing penises of sarcasm, into the pit of doom and despair and broken dreams and no cereal for breakfast because we're out of milk but we have pancakes and I don't like pancakes and I hate you mommy. I like to think that I'm making more sense than anyone (including me) can comprehend, so I'll let that stay. Anyways, the sarcasm eventually ground one side of my head down to a slant, put a chip on my shoulder, and made me into a little Amish midget with one leg shorter than the other, requiring me to have multiple beard-removal surgeries, among other corrective orthopedic measures. Eventually, my big sister moved out, but the damage was done; what good was it for me to have the house to myself (not counting my mom and dad), but only be able to reflexingly yell at the TV, "Oh, that's a REALLY good show! ...NOT!" every few seconds when my favorite cartoons were on, therefore ruining the viewing experience, and making me sad? I'll tell you what good it was: No good.

Times changed, though, and I evolved. Not in the Pokemon-like glow-and-then-become-stronger-and-more-powerful-and-cool-looking way, which I wish for every day on the hour to happen, even when I'm asleep or unconscious or dying, but unluckily, it doesn't (yet); but in the I'm-becoming-better-as-a-person-and-gee-my-life-should-be-made-into-a-three-hour-movie-about-a-guy-and-his-dog-or-something-I'm-so-fucking-pathetic kind of way, which I think is stupid and should be phased out of manufacturing in favor of the former method that, in my opinion, would make the world that much closer to a utopian paradise where ten-year-old boys run away from home with a backpack full of trinkets, and battle whimsical creatures to the death against one another for large sums of money. Back on track: My sarcasm was eventually nurtured in the garden of my brain, much as a mad scientist would nurture his genetically-engineered ten-foot-tall free-walking Venus flytrap in a garden of monstrosities that nature would never allow, until it goes crazy, consumes said scientist alive, and releases itself upon the hapless world, causing terror on an unimaginable scale, until it can only be eliminated by exploding the entire hemisphere of the planet on which it resides. Huh, whaddya know... an analogy that makes sense. But whereas I, in my ultimately super-intelligent intelligence, am nurturing sarcasm into a flowering blossom-stage similar to fine art in the Rennaisance and/or a wonderful homicidal ten-foot-tall Venus flytrap, my big sister took sarcasm and used it repeatedly and repetitively and restrictedly and redundantly every day, much like a hooker needs her daily crack, sex, and beatings from a pimp to survive. This is reflected in Raphaelangelo - the painter, not the Ninja Turtle, and how he took painting to a high art; whereas his lesser-known sister, Raphaelsexytits, incorporated painting into her erotic 'fun-dances', reserved only for the European elite, or the people who would slip her into a knockout-gas chamber and then bring her back to their mysterious underground fortresses and then force her to dance at gunpoint. And while Raphaelsexytits made far more money, acquaintances, and breeds of sexually-transmitted diseases than her brother, Raphaelangelo was, in time, revered as a master of his craft. I can safely say that this is how sarcasm pertains to me, so you should all save the future generations the trouble of discovering my true magnificence, and just revere me as a god of sarcasm now. You shall call me Super-King Firebreathing Chris of Many Burnings, and pray to me five times a day, while facing in the direction of wherever the hell I am. Should you not repeat the ode to my wonderfulness five times a day, even when unconscious, sleeping, or dying, you will be forever cast into the land of thrusting penises and blood and burning doom and endless sarcasm, where my big sister, the Taker of All Goodness and Eminator of Not-Good Stuff, rules all with a morbidly obese, sarcastic, gumbo-stained iron fist.

Moral of the story: .. Ah, hell, I don't know. Go fuck a dog's skull.