The Wall of Flaming Spaghetti Men
I had this dream. I was in an art gallery, looking
at a painting or something. I don't remember what
it was, but I asked what it was called. And someone
said, "That is The Wall of Flaming Spaghetti Men."
And I woke up. Whewww!
Don't know what it means. Don't really care.
But it's a fine title, very Expressionistical.
Or Post-Modern. Or polymorphously perverse.
Very artsy. So I thought I'd use it for this post.
Throw in a couple photos from my WTF collection.
Maybe you're a really, really intense art school
student, maybe hanging around a coffee shop until
your genius is discovered...37 cents in your pocket
...growing pimples and bad teeth...bitching about
your food service job...bored...wishing you were
black or gay or somehow involved or evolving...
anywhere but here...maybe a bigger city. Wishing
you wrote better blank verse. People call your
work "Interesting," but you're tired of being out
of gas money for your broke-ass 1994 Toyota. Yes,
you! You can hurl catsup at a canvas, burn it with
lighter fluid, and call it The Wall of Flaming
Spaghetti Men. And make a million. And have drug
dealers on speed dial. And fret for your latte and
fret for your hairpiece, etc. Whoa! It was just
a dream. Chill!
It's Friday. And this week has been murder.
Really. . .