The Poopster
I have a new career and moniker. I am The Poopster, Art Critic Extraordinaire! I'm chic, nouveau, and ultra fab. I will wow the art world
with my incisive critiques and suppositories.
All of the artists and gallery owners will
want my endorsement for their objets d'art. A mere nod of approval will send them into
ecstasy, for they know my favor will make their works sell. But even the slightest nod of disapproval will send them into abject despair.
Tonight I stroll along the gas-lit sidewalks of the Historic District, where the galleries and ateliers await me. I walk into Lipschitz' Gallery of Jewish Chatskas. Anna Lipschitz cries out, "Mazel tov! Zayne der Poopster. Irving, you putz, bring her some latkes and Manischewitz."
Afterwords I saunter into La Fromage Glass Bead and Dongle Factory. Marie exclaims, "Oh joie! C'est le Poopster! Andre, bring her some escargot and cabernet." Next door at El Capo Black Velvet Art (specializing in nudes and Elvis portraits), José screams with delight when I open the door. He says, "Oh alegría! Es el Poopster. Maria, bring her a fish taco and some sotol."
I am becoming stomach-loaded and queasy.
I walk the streets again, casually smoking a cigarette while enjoying the cool night air and trying not to barf up all of the gastronomic mix I have consumed. Around the corner another gallery awaits me. Burp!
As I enter Galerie Müller, Herr Müller jumps from his chair and proclaims,"Gott im Himmel! Hilda, bring Frau Poopster a brautwurst and some Diebels. I cannot say no, but I badly need a Bromo Seltzer. I'm as pale as a KKK bed sheet after laundry day. I continue on in great distress, knowing that I must not stop, for artists wait in their studios while preparing tasty hors d'oeuvres and libations, hoping the next knock on the door will be from... the Poopster!
Or, rather, let us be more simple and less vain.
~ Jean-Jacques Rousseau