Mona Lisa is candy ass

So you ask yourself, self, you ask, why does a completely reasonable adult person such as yourself spend hours doing kid-stuff jigsaw puzzles?

Then your other self says, you don't really want to ask yourself that, do you, self?

This ain't no kid stuff, baby.

This is high-end thinking, for chrissake. It is transcendent. What reasonable adult person wouldn't want to tediously recreate "Allegory of Sight" by Jan Brueghel the Elder or "Femme a Tete de Roses" by Salvador Dali?

You put together ol' Hieronymus Bosch's "Garden of Earthly Delights" one tiny agonizing piece at a time and you learn some shit, baby. Yes, that is a little piggy in a nun's habit sucking that guy's ear in the lower right hand corner. And yes those are a bunch of posies sticking out of that guy's ass right underneath the guy holding the giant fish head in the center panel. And this was like, 1503!

Van Gogh's staccato brush strokes in "Cafe Terrace at Night?" Ear or no ear, this guy knew his starry nights, mo' fo.

But this Mona Lisa babe? Chick's got zippo. DO NOT believe the bullshit. She's got no intrigue, no secrets, no surprises. I did the whole puzzle--all one thousand pieces--and all I had when I was done was a silly little broad with bad hair and no eyebrows. Made me sort of wonder iffin' the da Vinci in drag people aren't onto something. I mean, look at her hands for chrissake.


As for feminine mystique, where are her fingernails? What about her knuckles? Wonder how she was in the sack. My advice to you is, if you're into puzzles, forget this broad.

I am off to buy my next puzzle. I'm looking for something I can understand. I want eyebrows where there should be eyebrows and fingernails where there should be fingernails.

I want regular American plain, and I don't anticipate having any trouble finding it with this chick.

* * *

Vehicular proposition

In this lifetime, I'm going to buy a big-ass old car that's built like an tank. Once every couple of months, I'm going to strap myself in that mother like a storm trooper and ride around with no place to go.

Eventually, one of those snotty hotballs* in his snotty hotball car is going to decide that waiting two whole seconds in the exit drive of Dick's Sporting Goods while I pass is not worth his time and he's going to pull out right in front of me and make his left (or right) turn.**

In an awful big hurry to go home and load those hotballs into your new Lycra bicycle pants, aren'tcha, baby?

Instead of doing what he expects and slamming on my brakes, I'm going to smile and run right into the son of a bitch. Then I'm going to make his insurance pay to get that big bad-ass old car repaired, and then I'm going out driving around in order to do it again.

Until then, I shall continue dealing with the hotball contingent by employing my standard practice of laying on the horn and offering an enthusiastic gesture that includes my middle finger.

Thank you for your support.

##

*I refer to all men*** ages 18-35 in cars as "hotballs." When I'm talking to myself in the Mini Cooper, I'm usually saying something like, "Take it easy hotballs!" or, "Just hold on one second there, hotballs, and mama will move over."

**This maneuver is particularly maddening when they wave, as if to imply I had given them the right-of-way on purpose and the wave is a playful little thankyou of sorts.

***I realize that women do this as well. Not surprisingly, silly little broad is my standard label for them, unless they do something particularly egregious, then it's goddamn dumb broad.

**sigh**

A Monday morning thought: I would do anything to see this* in person.

*Update: After having fielded some comments, here is a sample of "The Garden of Earthly Delights" by Hieronymus Bosch, 1503. Click on the above link to view the entire work in high resolution.