My friends RJ and John Devore get into it in the comments section of RJ’s blog, Procrastinet. I hope he doesn’t mind, but I’m posting them here because they make me laugh SO hard. They’re arguing about the state of theater and Peter O’Toole’s comments in the Guardian UK, but I don’t even think you need to know that. . . I wish I could come up with such luscious insults off the cuff like these boys. Enjoy!
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Comments: The Withered Husk of Peter O’Toole Completely Loses Its Mind
RJ, you’re such a pompous whiner.
Bad art exists subsidized or on the free market.
And I’d go so far as to say that artists who owe no responsibility to an audience or a bottomline are encouraged to crawl into their own navel and rot.
Collegiate theater anyone?
Move to Britain, you goateed Marxist windbag. Go to Britain and make sure a funeral cortege of wannabe sell-out off-off-broadway “artistes” with you.
Posted by devore at March 30, 2005 12:08 PM
Look, beyotch, all I’m saying is if I’m going to be a smart-aleck twat, I’d rather be a PAID smart-aleck twat. Not all of us have figured out how to sell our mental flatulence to Maxim.
And if you’re going to try to tell me that you didn’t have more fun doing snotty, whiny, entitled college theatre than scraping around the periphery doing nights-and-weekends budgetless self-prod in Billyburg, I’m going to say you’re a liar as well as a faux contrarian pseudo-cynic.
Posted by rjt at March 30, 2005 12:24 PM
Don’t project your self-hatred on me, you fancy ass, tap-dancing vegetard.
And your slight to scrappy, sincere little po-dunk theater’s in Billyburg is duly noted, fat mouth. You’ll never work on that block again. Oh, I have that power. How will you know? Burning effigies, my friend. Cotton goatees on fire.
And no, I didn’t enjoy the deafening vaccum of college theater. That’s decorative art for dead people.
You want an easy paycheck? There are no easy paychecks. I labor blindly and one day the little piles of shit that I step into will maybe, not really, but maybe be a wee little pot of gold.
The rewards of art transcend the petty, pinheaded definitions of what we’re told success is. Per your previous post, chasing a band through the rain with your son is one such mark of success that transcends the tawdry earthly ones.
Also: you’re a goat-licking, nipple-shaving, body odor-rife mounteback with poor metaphysical hygene. If you were a fruit, you’d be a pineapple. Ungainly, full of thorny prickly leaves, and you taste great with vodka.
Suck on that vengence, Stalin.
Posted by devore at March 30, 2005 12:34 PM
You misspelled “hygiene” and “vengeance.”
That said, I yield in the face of your superior flame war kung fu.
There’s lots of substantive discussion to be had on this topic, which I can’t get into because I’ll just start calling you names again. Suffice it to say that, whatever the cause, the theatre in London is for the most part really, really good.
Posted by rjt at March 30, 2005 12:54 PM
Oh, you think i’ll let you off that easy, you fudge juggling, playground gravel chewing, neanderthal ballerina blog trash dryer sheet sniffing lover of festering ziggerauts of doggie doo on the corner of your nearest street?
Posted by devore at March 30, 2005 01:49 PM