Thanks to the popular trend of alarmist, panic inducing, emotional reaction inciting journalism that has become the 
standard for any discussion of current events, I am allowed, as you my loyal readers know, to give full vent to any fears, concerns, discomforts, or outrages caused by anything that strikes me as being different, unusual, or in anyway threatening. This is a great boon to me, for without serious journalists freaking out over whether birth weight is related to the development of leukemia or what the loss of sea-grass will do to the world I would never feel free to declare the need for the public to take radical steps to change a situation that few other people have ever even noticed. Indeed, if not for the constant panic that our news agencies attempt to keep the general public in I would be too wary of demanding that you, my loyal readers, join me in creating fake art.
And that is exactly what I am demanding of you, my loyal readers, that you immediately set about creating fake art.
For you see, dear reader, we are being inundated with a plague as dire as any other plague that has faced us since the loss of our vital sea-grass, the plague of the artist.
That is right my friends. We have too many artists. And they are wrecking lives, the economy, and art itself.
Somehow over the last thirty odd years or so a massive portion of our population has become convinced that they have a creative vision. And that is nonsense.
While this is a nonsense that people in previous generations may have believed at one point or another in their lives, they recognized that the proper outlet for their delusions of creativity was in the appreciation of what real artists could do or in small creative efforts that could be hidden away from public view.
But now we are nearly being swept under with all manner of people who are self-described artists, thinkers, and idea-men, people who are in reality merely desperate to prove to themselves that they are something special and have something that is worthwhile to share with other people.
These folks are found all the time now putting up art shows that are practically indistinguishable from each other with every piece they produce looking like a piece of garbage that Jackson Pollock threw up on. You see them all the time, carrying their sketchpads in their messenger bags, wearing their “Che” t-shirts (like Che Guevara wouldn’t shoot the freaking hippies in disgust at their bourgeois background) and everyone of them thinks that what they are creating is ART!
Well I say bullcrap! Just because you have a beret, a tattoo of a barcode, a scooter, a job that pays nothing, an organic hemp thong, and a gallery at a pizza parlor doesn’t mean that you are an artist!
Unfortunately the liberal arts college education that most of these “I’m a graphic designer but what I really am about is using photography to capture the language of the trees” types have had prevents them from realizing that the sheer level of suck proves that what they produce is not art. It is almost impossible to prove to those kinds of people that “the idea” is not enough to justify them satisfying their creative impulses, but rather that they need to learn how to freakin’ do what they are doing right!
And it is time that we, the not creative, prove it to them.
If we, the regular people of the world, gathered together and began to produce “art” (and it doesn’t matter what kind of art) and pretended that what we were doing really was art (even though we know that it isn’t) and began to demand space in galleries for our watercolors of kittens and flowers and sculptures of people we knew in high school then perhaps when everyone is unable to distinguish between our poorly conceived and hastily executed trash and the “art” of the wannabees, then maybe some of those darn fools will leave behind their jobs as baristas and get a job welding pieces of metal into something useful.
But it will take you, dear reader, actually putting pencil to paper and drawing what you think Superman would look like as a priest, or beating a trash can with a rock, or performing a song about the injustices of the PTA to a coffee shop of hipsters to make that worthless sack of pretentious culture droppings with the dreds to stop working on his screenplay and get that job as an accountant.
Don’t let me down.
-Bob
We look forward to seeing you!
