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Who Is Banksy and Why Should I Care?

There was a time in this country when we'd take vandals into the woods and beat them with pillow cases full of ball bearings.  It was a simpler time, when the mighty justice of blunt force trauma kept our walls graffiti free.  Sure, the cars were belching up the kind of emissions that would rot Denis Leary's tonsils, and toxic sludge left over from the manufacturing of those cars flowed into the waterways like a big, glowing green river of sadness.  But that was American sludge from the manufacture of American cars!

Now, as I plunk down with my Hungry-Man dinner for one and a lukewarm can of Schlitz, I'm forced to not only see graffiti prominently displayed on television, but I'm also supposed to be in awe of the hippy punks that defile our cities infrastructure like the buildings are Jodie Foster on a pinball machine, all in the quest for the ultimate expression of their own inner melodrama.  And alot of the time what they paint is well-known cartoon characters!  How many copyright violations must be washed away at taxpayers’ expense before these 30-year-old boys come to grips with the fact that daddy is not coming back from the store, and he has a new family that he loves more? 

 If you're going to claim that your works are creative expression, then dammit, be creative!  Take a look at my own cartoon creation to the right.  It's fun.  It's peppy.  The kids would all love it!  But for some reason, a muscled duck with nipples is somehow in and of itself a violation of children, but Mickey Mouse can cop a feel while drunk and the guy that did that is a genius.

Apparently, now I'm supposed to care about this "Banksy" character.  In addition to turning perfectly flat, empty walls into the confusing works of "pop art", this be-hooded weirdo is also nominated for an Academy Award for his film "Exit Through the Gift Shop".  I haven't seen the film, but something tells me it plays like architectural snuff.  Some poor, defenseless wall sits naked and vulnerable.  And in walks the faceless monster, paint dripping from the nozzle of his spray cans in taut anticipation.  And what follows in those vulgar, unforgiving minutes is an orgy of obscene colors that slice through our daily complacency like a surgical laser and expose the crying child within, yearning for understanding and compassion and exposing the depths of the mourning of our lost youth.  So naturally, it just pisses me off.

There's only one thing hippies and vandals alike understand, and that is beatings.  Beatings about the face, neck, and chest.  If Banksy gets the Academy Award, it is vital that Jack Nicholson and Al Pacino, two of the only remaining real men left in Hollywood, take turns beating holy Christ into him.  That'll probably learn that little hippy some respect.