Open Thread: Roadkill Art Edition

Speaking of butts: it turns out they can improve art! As some of you may have heard, I am a leading Wine Foil Sculptress, which is sort of like being Ann Althouse, only with better wine and less douchebaggery.

Anyway, the other evening, I constructed an armadillo. I used a ballpoint pen (Papermate, medium point) to define the ridges:


Meh. Something wasn’t quite right. Maybe the snout was too long? Or too high up? Tail too short? Anyhoo, I walked away for awhile, leaving it on the surface of my tiki bar.

When I returned a short time later and sat down on a bar stool, I felt something under my posterior and immediately leapt up, thinking I had accidentally squished a frog or giant cockroach. But Mr. C had moved the armadillo sculpture to the seat while I was gone so he could wipe up the cabernet I’d slopped on the surface of the bar during my drunken gesticulations as I was ranting about whatever topic we were ranting about previously, and I’d sat on the armadillo.

And you know what? NOW it looked EXACTLY like the roadkill armadillos that litter our highways down here:


Butts. Is there anything they can’t do?

[X-posted at Balloon Juice]

Posted by Betty Cracker on 09/26/12 at 11:51 AM • Permalink

Categories: BoozeCrittersI Don't Know Much About Art, But I Know What I Like

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Brava.  It’s kind of like Picasso’s bicycle seat bull’s head, in a way.  Once the sculpture is made, you look at the material itself differently.  It makes me reconsider the animal spirits within the foil.

It’s a thing of beauty, and will now be far easier to frame.

I hope you won’t become selfconscious about the application of the touche finale, but I’d turn it into a series.

Butts. Is there anything they can’t do?

They can even make phone calls.

Rumor has it that, after a particularly raucous evening with Picasso which included far too much sherry, Dali was wending his way back through Montmartre when he was bumped into by a cabaret dancer hustling across a street, and he sat heavily upon the curb.  While collecting himself, he discovered that he had sat upon his pocket watch, crimping it at a near perfect ninety degree angle.  Inspiration struck him immediately.

What I’m saying, Betty, is that your butt comes from a proud surrealist tradition.

Just don’t drink THROUGH your butt. Leave that for the frat boys.

Your next sculpture should be a Cuban tree frog, which you can then happily mash in whatever fashion you choose!

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