Jersey Shorr: The Distant, Distant Shorr; story # 2

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Humor  |  No Houses
The 2nd Jersey Shorr tale!

Submitted: November 02, 2011

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Submitted: November 02, 2011



Jersey Shorr: The Distant, Distant Shorr

By Mike Stevens

“And this guy calls himself an artist? Well, I’ve got news for Mr. Artist guy; I’ve seen better-looking sculptures in the cat box!” So began the latest critique column by noted art critic Jersey Shorr, in the latest issue of ‘Art from Around the Globe’ monthly magazine. Truth be told, Shorr loved it when the piece sucked, because then he could unleash his wicked, rather mean-spirited wit on an unsuspecting artist, who was looking for a good review, but getting ripped instead. The reality was that he had occasion to use his wit on every piece he reviewed, because he couldn’t see jack, but he would never admit to it, because he wanted to keep his high-paying job, and his celebrity. It was so nice to walk into an impossibly-crowded restaurant and immediately be given a table because of his fame. That’s where he was reading the latest issue, a table for 4 that he was given because of his status as an important art critic. He glanced across the crowded restaurant and saw the long line of people waiting for a free table. Chumps! Just then, his thoughts were interrupted by a woman in a little black dress, who came up to his table and blurted,

“Pardon me, Mr. Shorr, can I get your autograph?”

Inside, he was gratified to be recognized, but turned to the woman and replied, “Madam, can’t you see I’m eating? Oh, okay, I’ll sign; what would you like signed?”

The woman lifted up her shirt and answered, “How about these?”

“I’m sorry, but there’s not enough room for my signature; how about just my initials?”

The woman didn’t think his answer was funny, and ripped her shirt back down and left in a huff.

Jersey Shorr entered the hall to much fanfare. Such was always the case when he arrived at an art show. Artists, or to be more accurate, wanna-be artists, threw themselves at his feet, kissing up to him in an effort to win his approval, and he was used to it.

“It looks like a dog coughed up a hairball, and it just happened to land on a piece of blank canvas!” he skewered the first painting he came to.

The shocked and stunned artist turned away with tears in his eyes. Shorr seemed oblivious to the hurt he had caused. He actually had no idea what the painting looked like, but people expected a critique from him, and damn it, that’s exactly what they’d get!

He notice Mr. Hairball meekly slip out the front door. If he was upset about Shorr’s harsh critique of his painting, he hadn’t said anything.

Two hours had passed, and Shorr had not seen many more paintings, and it was time to leave. Frankly, he was relieved because his list of ranks used to describe different works had almost been exhausted. Thinking up different ways to say a piece was crap was hard work! Gratefully, he headed out to where he’d parked his luxury sedan. He knew he shouldn’t be driving because of his poor eyesight, but he’d be damned if he’d admit it to himself! He looked across the parking lot to where he’d parked, taking up 2 spots so some in-breeder couldn’t park too close and carelessly swing open his door and ding his paint. He saw his car, but it looked funny. He blamed it on his failing eyesight, and kept walking. As he got closer, he could see someone had taken something heavy, and beat the crap out of it. The side closest to him was dented in several spots, the mirror frame was hanging loose from one side, and the glass from it was scattered on the ground in a jagged heap.

“Son of a b***h!” he muttered. What kind of a complete b*****d would do this to a beautiful car? At last, he reached his poor vehicle. He noticed a crude message scratched into the paint of the driver’s side door. He couldn’t read it, so he scrunched up his eyes, and could just make out,

“This car looks like a dog coughed up a hairball, and it just happened to land on a car chassis!”

How did Mr. Hairball know it was his car? Then he remembered his vanity plates which read ‘Art Critiquer’. Son of a b***h!

The End

© Copyright 2018 Mike Stevens. All rights reserved.

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