Silver Sharpie Penis

Dear Columbus,

It’s fucking hard to park in you. It is. I don’t get it. I just want to take my Datsun and I want to put it some place while I go look at Ric Ocasek’s Doodles. ‘Snot much to ask. ‘Snot much at all. But God Damn it, the gallery closes at fucking 6 O’casek and it’s already 4:44 or some shit. How can I appreciate these Doodles when I only got an hour and some change. Now I got to waste it finding a parking space and fishing myself out of my own fucking pocket. Fuck. Dude’s got fucking 175, y’know, fucking things in this gallery. That’s like 3 a minute. I don’t think he turned ‘em out that fast. Look more like five minutes. Five minutes a doodle. Five-min-doo. Yeh.

So pissed off about fucking parking, I don’t even know how look at this stuff! What is this, Ric? Are these your blueprints? Your blueprints for Columbus’s new fucking parking garage subdivision? I’m seein’ some alligator heads and some music notes and a bunch of shapes an’ shit. Color’s pretty as fuck. That’s pretty cool I guess, but I wouldn’t call it a party. Party’s where you drink a bunch of Absolut or some shit because you saw it on RuPaul. And why, Shannel? Why not Rebecca. Rebecca puts on make-up by sticking her God Damn head in a toaster. Bring back Ongina!

Sorry, Ric, I got carried away. That’s not what party’s about. Party’s about throwing ‘em back and then trying to figure how you’re fucking going to get yourself back home. How you gonna do it? Huh? Who’s gonna drive you home? Nobody, that’s fuckin’ who. ‘Cause ain’t nobody got no car, because they can’t find no fucking parking in fuckin’ Columbus ‘cause the city takes Ric Ocasek’s Magic Marker Masterpieces and sticks ‘em in a sterile gallery instead of demolishing Chittenden and building that shit there.

This a beach? Now this beach. . . in negative? Life’s just a fucking beach when you can make Sixteen-Hundred Fucking Bucks off a Polaroid and five minutes in Photoshop. Some woman’s ass? Did she know about being in that picture? I hope she’s getting a cut of that big buck. I gotta be honest: I’m weirded the fuck out. I don’t know whatcha goin’ for. I got mixed messages. This called Noise Colored Party. Where’s the fucking color? I see the doodles, but where’s the rest? What about the fucking room? And the Noise? No sound in the fucking gallery. Not even a mouse fucking stirring to fucking fuck his girl. He’s fucking horny and he ain’t doing it. Too God Damn awkward. No music to muffle my voice while my girl and I discuss your work. And some nice, professional lady gotta come up and tell me about price points and stickers or something? Half the experience is the presentation. Don’t they teach you that shit in Rock School? Dead silent white room full of judgment. Can’t say anything other than “I like this one” without feeling like I’m insulting some fucking widow. I can see this party, but right now, it’s bangin’ abstractly in a fucking vacuum.

This is some super-serious fucking party. Make my nuts put on business suit ‘fore I let ‘em attend. Super-serious party. Super-serious price point. $800 or some shit?! Fuck. ‘Cause I think I just spotted the crown jewel. The family jewel. $1100 Penis. Silver Sharpie Penis. $1100. Silver. . . Sharpie. . . Penis. You from Super Bad? What the fuck is this? This is some Emperor’s New Clothes shit? Everyone’s bein’ all God Damned stone-cold and I’m sittin’ here screaming, “Can’t you all see the Emperor’s Silver Fucking Sharpie Penis? It’s right there floppin’ in yo’ fucking face!”

Here’s how we do it NTJ style: I take my sister’s Mazda down to local dump yards and I get fucking fridges. I’m talking, big ass, William Perry, antique shit here. We need some God Damn turquoise 50s fridges. Fridges of all ages, sizes and colors, races, creeds. Maybe some of ‘em so old, they radioactive. I don’t fucking care; I don’t take no shit from fridges. That shit comes up to my biological cells I tell it to fuck right the fuck off. That’s what I do.

So, we take these doodles and we give ‘em each a name. “The Assassination of Franz Ferdinand.” “Mr. Eurasure Goes to Washington 1776.” “Fuck.” Step 7: Put ‘em on the fridges. Paint the walls red. People come in, they get the idea. These some fun fucking Doodles. High Art? Maybe if it was all colored inside the Fucking lines. Fun as fuck? Silver Sharpie Penis! Wacky Magnets. The whole deal. On the last fridge, I’m gonna write out a sign in eraser dust, it says “DO NOT OPEN.” Maybe put some burnt up boots in front of it like Repo Man. People gonna open that shit. Inside is a silver penis cake. Maybe the whole fucking fridge is built outta silver sharpies. Maybe the whole fucking building. Maybe your whole fucking parking garage. That’s how you fucking do it.

Your Fucking Friend,

The New Thomas Jefferson

P.S.: Good luck with those fucking parking garages. You tell those fuckers not to take no shit from physics.