I had a dream last night that I was smoking a joint with President Obama. He had a red bicycle, a beach cruiser that you rent for the day on the Venice Boardwalk, and he was young, just like those pictures of him in college with the straw hat and the cool attitude.
We sat together in the grass by the bicycle, and we each took a long drag, and I asked him, “Seriously, dude. Why the fuck don’t you make this shit legal?”
He put a finger to his lips as if to say, “Shhh.” Then he grinned like the Cheshire Cat, and I suddenly realized that he was telepathically communicating with me. Without moving his lips, I heard him speak two simple words: second term.
Second term, indeed.
This morning’s sunrise over the grand canyon melted my face.
You think you shit glitter, but you’re nothing but a fish-lipped dirt squirrel living in a gated community of idiots. You are an emotional vampire with an eating disorder and an adderall addiction. You subsist on celery and chaos. If you ever had a conscience, you got rid of it like a prom night dumpster baby. The botox injection sites on your forehead connect to form the shape of a pentagram. I feel sorry for your hair extensions. May your death involve duct tape.
Everyone needs to stop referring to Thomas Kinkade as an artist. He wasn’t an artist. He was a craftsman. There’s a huge difference.
A master craftsman can pump out a highly refined work product that isn’t actual art in much the same way that Olive Garden can pump out a highly refined menu that isn’t actual Italian food.
Craftsmanship isn’t artistry. That’s Kincade’s legacy.