Wednesday, March 18, 2026
In the realm of artist and critic, the critic is fraudulent. The critic is a shadow of the saint—a film of righteous piety that smells. Somebody has a butthole. But who? The judge doesn’t defecate. Neither does his virgin mother, or the animals in the “stall.”
The artist exposes. No art is received with great acclaim without there being some aspect of stench. The artist knows that critics are hypocrites pretending to be “objective.” The artist is not the only one who poops, smearing it on a canvas for all the world to see. Somebody is forgetting the judge smells, too. Ironic, since this blog is often finger-pointing!! I smell it, too. Whatever you make—a galaxy, a planet, a human body, or even a universe—something is subject to the critic. The judge stands behind her bench. And what is behind that robe? A wrinkled, hairy, tattered, and beat-out waste chute.
Everyone’s got stench. Even the critic. The judge questions her own judgment. Her criticism is questionable. She’s a hypocrite. She’s wearing a covering over her bottom while berating your stench hole—pointing at your “privates” and saying: “That could use some sprucing up.” The artist exposes. I’ll show you mine if you show me yours. “No way,” quips the judge. “I don’t have one of those. I stand behind “the law.”
The critic has no butt nor genitalia, like Barbie. She’s like the Virgin Mary. But the artist tries to expose her, yet she is just a plastic figurine who sits atop the dirty dashboard of the mind, protecting the world. Jesus never pooped, had an erection, ejaculated, fornicated, lied, or doubted. Neither did his spotless mother.
They are precious, plastic, judgy heirlooms giving us the stink-eye on our dashboards! The artist makes them real again. “I smell something,” says the artist. “Even myself. OK people, let’s keep it real.”