The Matisse Magritte (that's the one on the right) belonged to legendary jazz warbler and jizz gargler George Melly, who died today at the age of 80. Please let it be Dylan's turn next.
Through the fearsome powers of my piercing intalekt, I have deduced that the feller on the left is NOT a) Matisse, b) George Melly, c) Dylan - though he certainly seems compatible with a jizz gargler. So, who dat ? Another personage I should be thankful not to know ?
Dylan already died, in the eighties, but he came back from the dead to show us the path of righteousness. And when his son Jesus returns, you shall burn my friend, burn.
I'm not sure that's a fucking Matisse OR a Magritte, but what the fuck would I know?
I thought it was a Dali but, like I said, what the fuck would I know about anything.
It's only that, when we were growing up in our little hovel, my mother used to scream at my father when he trudged in from his slaughterhouse job: take off your shoes you surrealist cunt, do you want the neighbours thinking we're pointillistes?
But of course, that was Ireland in the Fifties. It's very different now.
13 Comments:
I don't understand the question.
Through the fearsome powers of my piercing intalekt, I have deduced that the feller on the left is NOT a) Matisse, b) George Melly, c) Dylan - though he certainly seems compatible with a jizz gargler. So, who dat ? Another personage I should be thankful not to know ?
That's ol' Laurence and you need him in your life. Honest.
No, I still can't see any difference at all. Flicked hair, twat where the mouth should be... I don't get it. Humph.
Oh dear me. I would so kill to be "81st sexiest man on the planet".
Sorry, you want Dylan to own a Matisse next?
That's NOT a Matisse anyway, It's a MAGRITTE. Really, it is.
Quite right, Anonymous. Glad to see someone knows their art from their elbow.
Dylan already died, in the eighties, but he came back from the dead to show us the path of righteousness. And when his son Jesus returns, you shall burn my friend, burn.
Oh and, I would pay good money to see Laurence nailed to a wall.
Not nailed in a sexual sense.
Well maybe, I've been watching Rome and I may have been turned.
As long as the wall was a fetching shade of magnolia he probably wouldn't mind.
I'm not sure that's a fucking Matisse OR a Magritte, but what the fuck would I know?
I thought it was a Dali but, like I said, what the fuck would I know about anything.
It's only that, when we were growing up in our little hovel, my mother used to scream at my father when he trudged in from his slaughterhouse job: take off your shoes you surrealist cunt, do you want the neighbours thinking we're pointillistes?
But of course, that was Ireland in the Fifties. It's very different now.
Ceci n'est pas un joke.
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