I Don’t Know Art, But I Know What I Like

I don’t buy paintings very often, but when I do, I make sure they cost more than your average American’s annual salary. And if it has an unsavory theme, so much the better. Making my latest acquisition, La Hermosa de Coño, a perfect addition to my collection.

“That’s it, that’s it. No, a little to the left,” I said to the two shipping department flunkies who were installing the piece in my office. “A little more — perfect!”

And it really was. The artist who crafted it, Don Paulo Pelea de Gallos, isn’t terribly well known yet, but his talent is sure to make him a household name before long.

“What do you think, boys?” I asked the shipping clerks while lighting a cigar. Don’t ask me their names; I can’t be bothered to familiarize myself with anyone as low on the corporate totem pole as these two are.

“Out of sight, man,” said the tall one.

“Yeah,” his partner added. “I can’t believe they’ll let you hang this in your office!”

“Benefits of membership, lads,” I said, smiling broadly. It was then that my personal secretary, Ms. Cashtushy, walked in and spoiled my moment in the sun.

“Mr. Carver,” she said, looking down at a tall stack of papers in her lily white hands, “I need to get your signature on oh my god!

“What is it, Cashtushy?” I asked. “Don’t tell me you don’t have an appreciation for fine art?”

“Fine art?” she parroted. “Fine art?”

“Yes, that’s right. Fine art.”

“But it’s—”

“Yes?”

“It’s a painting of a vagina!”

“It is indeed. A beautiful one at that.”

“But—”

“There will be no buts! It’s my office, and I can hang anything I want on these walls!”

As it turned out, there is some arcane rule on the books at Luddite, Crapstone & Fuchs that says employees can’t actually hang anything they want on their walls, no matter how highly placed the employee nor how tasteful the art. Furthermore, Cashtushy didn’t find any humor in my suggestion that she take a part-time job as a model for Pelea de Gallos, and I wound up having to cut her yet another check for $10,000 to sweep it all under the rug.

Ha. “Sweep it under the rug.” No pun intended, but I’ll let it stand.

Anyhow, I’m heading home early to decide on a suitable place to hang this exquisite work of art. Probably over my bed — nothing gets a woman in the mood faster than a giant reproduction of a vagina, especially when it’s rendered on black velvet. Ta-ta.

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Categories: Business, Culture, Dating

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