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 f*****g 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 p***y."
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