Shadow of DeathHere I am participating in the ancient Hebrew ritual of Jazzercise, apparently. Honestly, I'm Jesus Christ the Lord, the Lamb of God, and I have no clue what the fuck is going on in this painting. Yeah, I get it, the shadow looks like it's being nailed to a cross. Sort of hard to miss the point when you name the painting Shadow of Death. Really, very subtle. Next time add arrows.
This wouldn't even be such a terrible painting if you had me doing something functional, like extending my arms because I'm about to chest-bump Peter, or doing some one-handed push-ups or something. The only thing I could conceivably be doing in this painting is trying to make a crucifix shadow puppet so some Victorian douchebag could feel clever.
Whatever This IsI couldn't find the title.
Do Elvis fans paint the King dead on the toilet? No. You know why? Because they'd rather not remind people of the embarrassing, gruesome way he died. You know what else is an embarrassing way to go? Getting nailed to a fucking cross with a wash cloth draped over your crotch. I mean, I did some amazing shit in my day. I walked on water. Healed lepers. But no, don't bother painting that. Please, by all means, keep immortalizing the worst day of my life. It's not like I'm trying to put that behind me.
Whatever This Is, Part TwoNo. I'm sorry, I know you tried hard, but this is why they should card people for Retard before you give them paint sets. I wouldn't hang this in my bathroom.
You know my people, the Jews, didn't try to paint God. Didn't think they could do him justice. In fact, we didn't even speak his name. Meanwhile, I can't piss without hitting some mural of myself looking like an effeminate Kenny Loggins. I swear, you people.
Whatever This Is, Part WhateverOnce again portrayed at my finest moment, but this time the artist chose to give me an "Oh" face. Dear art school dropouts. Last time I checked, having your organs dislodged from their rightful places doesn't make you want to go celebrate a fucking touchdown. And what' with the lipstick? I was pretty much over that phase by then.
I Don't Even Know Why I'm Bothering To Title TheseWhen I see this, I see a mop of pubes on a teenage Sly Stallone. And sweet Lord, you could land a Harrier jet on that forehead. Why paint my flaws when I have such attractive features? My palms, for example. Could have been a hand model. You know, before the thing.
Badass JesusI like it. I'm cool-looking. And dreadlocked, like, way before it was what everyone was doing. This says, "Hey, son, I may be your savior, but I'd also like to play tenor sax with you sometime, and then teach you how to munch pussy."