“Let me show you my work,” they say, opening a portfolio in a storm.
It’s plenty brilliant, but it’s not like they’ve been punching the clock down at the smelter for six months.
“My work,” they continue, “attempts to trapeze the stigmata that violates the hierarchies and higher Archies Comics which serialize the tenderloin medallions of our jack-boated & peeper-jack rabbits” [sic].
They smell like every blundering variety of onion—yellow, red, white, sauteed—simultaneously.
One wishes they’d engage in ablutions, even back-alley ablutions, you know, “work” a bar of soap into a lather in order to exfoliate a few olfactory outlets.
“I try to work every day”, they add, if “to work” equates with menacing glances issued upon the skyline from the boxy confines of a dumpster-dove armchair.
The rejection of the treatise, the tilt of the beret, the ankle-height of the denim, the adjustment of the mustaches, the futility of the effort to vanquish an indefatigable booger.
“My opus is to myopia,” they say, “as my oeuvre is to my oeuf, as my opiate is to my Boeuffy the Vampire Slayer.”
The work weak, the work ethnic, the work oat.
The scene shifts to a $3.00 coffee tab.
“I call this my work Visa,” they say, producing a credit card.
It’s a miracle the transaction goes through, it’s a miracle they pick up the tabby, [sic].
It’s a miracle they merely cull the heard of hearing.
complaint week 2015 editorial schedule:
October 26: The Democrat Machine
October 27: Artists and Writers Who Say “My Work”
October 28: GWU Fires Adjunct Creative Writing Faculty
October 29: Washington, D.C. Manchester City Bros
October 30: People Who Don’tListen to Music