Art Thieves Steal The Turd

mboldened by the recent broad-daylight swiping of legendary Norwegian artist Edvard Munch’s famous paintings The Scream and Madonnas from Oslo, Norway’s Munch Museum (which is a terrible place to wander into stoned, but a hilarious name for a museum regardless of whether you pronounce it “Munch� or “Munk�), thieves in New York this week made off with The Turd, a controversial piece of conceptual art that was until very recently housed in the Museum of Modern Art in downtown Manhattan.

Upon hearing that there had been a daring daylight heist at the MoMA, terrified museum officials initially feared the worst.

“I almost shit my pants,� admitted curator Vaughn Cammels. “They could have made off with a Van Gogh, Monet or Picasso, priceless artworks which never could have been replaced. Those first few seconds were like a mini-nightmare.�

The missing piece, valued by museum officials as “impossible to sell,� consisted of a white porcelain turd on a dinner plate. Some museum employees were relieved to find out that R.H. Hiddelstein’s obscure piece of protest art from 1982 had been stolen, rather than one of the museum’s many easier-to-appreciate masterworks. Though understandably distraught over the theft, many have been looking at the bright side, pointing out that they can finally clean that spot on the wall. For years, few had dared to move The Turd, because none could tell if it was really porcelain or just a real turd painted white.

When asked what police were doing to catch the crooks, police chief Harold Almney insisted that the case had been given appropriate priority and that the police would start at nothing to bring these crooks to justice.

“The Turd is a crucial piece in understanding the development of modern sculpture,� explained art historian Checky Brazelton. “Without it, we would never have been blessed with any of the several related masterpieces that followed, including Bradnell’s Lung Chunk or Dolenski’s Snot on Toast. This is a major loss for the art community.�

“The what?� queried a surprised Lindsay Sommers, an intern at the MoMA. “Somebody stole that thing? I was using it as an ashtray on my breaks.�

Irregardless of the opinion of some part-time art critics, the artist Hiddelstein has been distraught since learning of the theft, vowing not to rest and planning to leave work on his latest sculpture-in-progress, the man-sized Shithead, on hiatus until the bandits can be brought to justice.

“You cannot understand my pain unless you have ever lost a child,� explained Hiddelstein after this reporter suggested he could knock out another piece comparable to The Turd if given twenty minutes and a plate of bran muffins. When asked if he wasn’t just being pretentious, Hiddelstein answered with a piece of interpretive dance that was way over the commune’s head.

When asked why the thieves left numerous priceless works of art hanging on the walls while making off with Hiddelstein’s obscure piece, authorities speculate that the thieves may have been either huge Hiddelstein fans, complete art novices, or just absolute morons. Others have speculated that the thieves came for a Van Gogh or Monet, but panicked when the non-silent alarms went off and grabbed The Turd in a hurry on their way out the door, so as not to leave empty-handed. However, a thorough inspection of the dumpsters outside surrounding buildings failed to lend credence to this theory.

“This is the new face of modern art theft,� explained face of modern art theft expert Carson Faulkner. “It’s brash, in-your-face, and usually pretty stupid. No longer are we living in the days of your father’s art thief, a suave motherfucker squeezing in through some high window with suction cups sewn into his gloves, limboing his way through a maze of laser tripwires and slipping a priceless masterpiece out if its frame using a high-tech black-market silica spray. Now it’s just a couple of retards barging in with a shotgun and making off with whatever’s easiest to carry, even if it’s a worthless piece of modern shwag or the trashcan over by the men’s room. It’s sad, really.�

Until new leads materialize, local authorities are scanning art auction listings for mention of the sculpture, and keeping an eye on eBay in case the thieves get really desperate. While there are several turds currently for sale on the auction site, and liberal examples of bad modern art, none yet appear to be the missing piece.

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Talk about your shitty weekends. I've heard of Tijuana coke mule vacations that went better than this. What can go wrong at a parade, right? Try everything.

It all started out well enough. Nice day, sun's out, chicks in majorette outfits, right? Sweet. Couple of brewskies with the guys, taking in the sights. Families are out with their kids, which is always a sweet reminder that you're not saddled with any little snot goblins of your own. Old people there too, reminding you how great it is not to be them. Could have been the perfect day. Then this fucking clown shows up and it all goes to hell.

For the record: Sure, I was making fun of his poofy pink hair and all that, but ain't those dudes supposed to be all jolly and shit? Not this guy. As soon as I started clowning on his tired purple dot pants, that freakshow flew into a berserk clown rage. That dude went all postal clown on my ass. I'm telling you, this was one clown who wasn't secure in his sexuality.

It's not like I've never had my ass kicked before. Meter maids, mailmen, Tommy Frithy's auntie May—they all know how to bring it. But this clown was something different. Normally when I'm getting my dork kicked in, eventually my pathetic screams are enough to make the assailant lay off for a sec, at least long enough for me to grab the fender of a passing car and be dragged to safety. But not this clown. That dude was enjoying this shit.

I'd be at the pearly gates right now, explaining to Saint Peter why I had a big floppy shoe stuck up my ass if it weren't for that ice cream truck that rolled up on Mr. Clown right as he was about to take his belt off. Thank God that clown had a weakness for Dilly bars, that's all I can say. While he was two-fisting those motherfuckers like some kind of refugee fresh out of an ice creamless desert, I managed to drag my broken ass over to an open manhole and flop down inside. By the time he realized where I'd gone it was too late—no way was he going to risk getting his big pink afro-wig wet down in that sewer.

And by the way, thanks for standing up for me, guys. I don't know what was worse, having a big overweight clown miming anal intercourse with my limp, bleeding body in the middle of the street, or having to hear you guys cracking up and making catcalls the whole time. I might have even forgiven that indignity if you guys hadn't taken the clown out for drinks afterwards. I guess I know what kind of friends I've got. The "for shit" variety.

And to add insult to injury and total humiliation, now the city's suing my ass for ruining the parade. And I keep getting letters from some jackass who says his kid is afraid of clowns now, thanks to me. But you won't believe the fucking topper of them all. That fucking clown himself sent me a scary-assed postcard the other day, with a menacing picture of himself on the front and a smear of my own blood on the back.

When I find out which one of you jokers gave him my address, you're gonna taste my cane, bitch.

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Back in my school days I was of truest retro nature, riding a camel to school in a day when all the kids rode dromedaries, or at least Malibus. Can you pluralize Malibu? Sounds like a sickly French school bus to me.

Bas Lurman or no Bas Lurman (though of course I prefer the former), I have to say that retro anything is a good excuse to wear the clothes you get off the old couples when you do those home invasion robberies. You agree, no? Not fewer than seven times have I had the fashion-savvy passerby comment upon my depression-era negligee and feather boa. But I have to admit that even I cringe at those old high school yearbook photos, thinking as I did at the time that I was posing for a Playboy spread. Quite the challenge for a young Wisconsin boy but we're of scrappy stock and suffer for our art.

And suffer we did! The episodes with Scrappy were the hardest Scooby Doos to watch, indeed. I always thought "Scooby Doo" sounded like something you find on your windshield after you get your car out of long-term parking at the airport. But still the courts would not hear my intellectual property suit, which was a shame since its pinstripes were exquisite. Am I getting through to you?

I'm so confused... if only Alex Trebek were here to help me out in my time of need…

-dissolve-

"Welcome to the show Stu, why don't you start us off and pick a category? Your choices are: "Kidd Rock's in My Outhouse!" "High School Fashions of the Damned" "Andy Rooney's Hemorrhoid Pillow" "Things You've Eaten By Accident" and "What's In This Damn Shampoo?"."

"I'll take Vanna White for a ride, Alex!"

"That's not an option, Stu. That's not even the right show."

"Judges?"

"Goddammit Stu! Only I can question the judges! You're treading on thin ice mister!"

-jarring return to reality-

Last year I met those Hansen kids in person and I have to say, those were some cute motherfuckers. We're talking cute beyond all intelligible speech. I had to communicate through a hand puppet the whole time. If I'd had more time to prepare, it probably wouldn't have been a boxing puppet of Hitler dressed up as a nun, but it was short notice and all. I don't think they really meant what they said about my ruining of their lives and all that. Crazy kids.

But a restraining order is a restraining order, as my dad used to say. And this one, I believe, has also been ratified by NATO. That can't be right.

I was just commenting the other day: Man, Clorox sucks on cereal! Oh, wait -flips through mental file- I guess the relevant comment would actually be: I need to come up with a plan for my life. A mission, even. Do you have a mission, should I choose to accept it? Why thank you, I love Spanish architecture! Haha. That one never gets old. Seriously though, my plan:

(Read slowly, 'cause I don't write that fast.)

Five years from now, I'd like to be, for all intents and purposes, Bjork.

There you go. That is my five-year plan, though Dad tells me it shouldn't have taken five years just to come up with that. I told him to bite it, Hotsy.

Anyway, now I see a wayward soul trying to put a parking ticket on my windshield outside, I must go and act as his conscience. I did mention that I'm three inches tall, and a cricket, right?

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