Recently your friend Behr (Friend Behr) was at a Sotheby's type auction in a guy's garage. These auctions are run by an organization that refers to me by my code name: The Mark. There I won a bid for the famous painting, Jurgen Prochnow in Springtime. You must be thrilled. Feel free to masturbate freeform at any point in this scholarly article if you like. I am removing that restriction for this writeup and this writeup only.

In this painting, done in the style of The Masters, we see Jurgen Prochnow (famous German) in shorts and a light and breezy shirt unbuttoned to the navel, reclining in some grass at what appears to be some kind of random Bavarian resort development I cannot identify based on the painting alone. I don't know if you've ever seen this painting or photographs of it. I wish you could be here with me right now looking at this painting that my $186 billion dollar bid secured for me so that I can view it privately in my home at my leisure. This is an important part of buying art.

The first thing I did after buying this fine piece of art was to go down to the framing store at the mall. There are "professional artsy places" you can go to for this, but why spend big money for what is essentially four pieces of wood with some nails in it. Fucking stupid if you pay more than fifteen bucks for a frame. Makes me sick. People like you. Gross. You are so gross.

I got the frame slapped on and I went home with the painting in the back of my Pontiac (fine American car from the 70s when everything was perfect for everyone all the time and good shows were on television). I got caught in some traffic, masturbated vigorously to some of Dick Wagner's classical music, and then got home with my painting.

At the house I took over by absolutely fucking over the previous owners with a screwdriver and some lemon wedges and a metric shitload of plywood, I put the painting up over the fireplace. Nice to have a fireplace in the unincorporated lands outside of Bismarck, North Dakota where I now live and operate what are basically sweatshops with a 14% death rate daily. Yes, you read that right. Those figures are DAILY.

There I look at it every day after I get home from beating my forced labor based workforce into submission in my mine and in my 19th century textile mill. Oh, I love seeing the welts on their backs when they come in for their chunk of hard tack and their cup of reconstituted piss, their backs all hunched over, the poor, pathetic losers of society lapping at my heels. I love it.

Since you are my friend and give your full-throated support to all that I do and believe in, I would like to invite you and one of your "kin" to come and look at my painting of Jurgen Prochnow in Springtime. Let me tell you more about the history and relevancy of this fine painting. Get your pants off and help yourself to the cocktail bar.

The painter's name is unknown, which, as any art collector knows, increases the value exponentially. It was painted at some point in the 1980s, or is meant to represent how Mr. Prochnow looked like in the spring at some point in the mid-1980s. This information is GLEANED from looking at the painting. You come over here and look at it, motherfucker. You tell me it is meant to represent Jurgen Prochnow at ANY other era in American history. I double-dare you.

This is a light, airy, and inspirational painting done in the style of The Masters. It really is quite a find. You ought to come over and look at it. Come over. I'll put some coffee on.

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