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Ariane Trades Me Hugs for Jesus Statue for Butt Drawing

Ariane on bARTer Sauce
Ariane on bARTer Sauce

Ariane was kind enough to endure some of my "interview" questions since we did this trade through the mail.

Please enjoy getting to know her a little better and also -- live in wonder as to why she will not tell me what kind of sandwiches are her favorite. It makes no sense.

Q. How did you meet your girlfriend?

Jazz Singer Painting that Wants to Eat Eric's Girlfriend

Original Owner: 
Painting Titled Jazz Singer

Eric's story - told from the perspective of the Jazz Singer Painting that Wants to Eat Eric's Girlfriend:

I am eight years old. I was born on a cold winter night in Chicago, Illinois when my creator could not sleep and decided to use the paint and canvas he'd purchased months prior in a momentary delusion that he could "be artistic." I began as a random splashing of primary colors. My creator, who will from this point heretofore be known as Bitch Daddy, had no vision. As he'd later explain to me, his chosen process does not begin with an end result in mind, instead he likes to put his hands on something and let it take shape as he goes.

Long story short, I emerged from his creative womb as a colorful abstract of a jazz singer in a nightclub. You may notice my mouth wide open, my earrings, my necklace, and eyebrows. Since 1999, I have lived on the walls of various apartments on Chicago's northside, and since the summer of 2004 have been living on Capitol Hill. At social gatherings, Bitch Daddy gestures toward me, telling people, "You see that painting right there? One day I'm gonna be dead and that thing is gonna be valuable!" Well, as things have turned out, there is no longer a place for me in the home of my creator. He co-habitates with his super-sexy and cerebral rollergirl burlesque dancer girlfriend, and apparently, I frighten her.

You see, as they are not allowed to put holes in the walls of their apartment, the only place I fit is on top of the window frame in their bedroom. Sometimes, she wakes up in the middle of the night and the image that Bitch Daddy created as a jazz singer belting out a sultry note in a nightclub, to her, looks like a monster that wants to eat her. And then she can't sleep, or she can but has nightmares of being eaten alive. Either way, I've got to go. I carry no sour grapes.

I mean, with this girl in his life, Bitch Daddy has it pretty good, and how can I compete? I don't laugh at his jokes, walk his dog, or play with his willy. Relatively speaking, I bring very little to the table. Insult to injury, he apparently wants to trade me in for a larger painting of two vaginas because, as he has said, "The only thing better than a vagina is two vaginas, plus, the vagina painting is large enough to cover the unsightly electrical panel in my new office. Bonus! Double Bonus!" Lovely. And so here we are, I am seeking a foster home. Please don't let me wind up on the back of a milk carton. Can you help me?

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