A big nod to Lorraine Devon Wilke of Addicting Info: The Knowledge You Crave.
Glenn causes me various gastrointestinal ills and I am something of an artist, myself. Plus, while I actually speak a fluent French, I cannot, for the life of me, imitate a French accent in English (an inexplicable oddity).
For that matter, I cannot "do" a Spanish accent in English, either, despite a passable command of that language, as well. It's a mystery.
So I am thinking of dedicating a week, a month, however long it might take to get it right, to the accumulation of G.I. matter*, enough to fill a life-size mason jar into which I will insert the Living, Nude Glenn Beck. We will call it Beck-in-Poo, which sounds for all the world like a charming English hamlet. And, given that insight, as if from God, there will be no need for any accent nonsense at all!
Being that I'm a big fan of the "Eureka!" story of Archimedes and the discovery of displacement -- I love baths -- guesses from the gallery as to the amount of poo displaced by Mr. Beck will end with the awarding of a lucrative door prize.
At no time will the gigantic lid be screwed on the jar, at least not without a straw and generous air holes. Beck-in-Poo being performance art, Glenn will be extricated at the end of the gala evening. We have an exciting closing to this art act: attendees will don brown vinyl raincoats and urns of Holy Water with which the Actor shall be cleansed.
Clearly, some of this needs rethinking, revisioning. His nudity, for example. People will be trying to eat delicate and delicious canapés, and devouring the cubed cheese platter, the spiced nuts, the pretzels. Washing it all down with ice-cold chablis. That blue thong Beck created with a sublime minimum of wrist-flicking keeps coming to mind as an option. Not that it will be blue for long, though.
Great art. It's hard.
In lieu of a framed Constitution as our visual Appeal to Authority, the gallery-owner, an odd woman, wants framed xeroxed copies of Dolley Madison's letter to her sister as the British enter Washington, intent on burning the wayward city to the ground:
Three o'clock. -- Will you believe it, my sister? we have had a battle, or skirmish, near Bladensburg, and here I am still, within sound of the cannon! Mr. Madison comes not. May God protect us! Two messengers, covered with dust, come to bid me fly; but here I mean to wait for him... At this late hour a wagon has been procured, and I have had it filled with plate and the most valuable portable articles, belonging to the house. Whether it will reach its destination, the "Bank of Maryland," or fall into the hands of British soldiery, events must determine. Our kind friend, Mr. Carroll, has come to hasten my departure, and in a very bad humor with me, because I insist on waiting until the large picture of General Washington is secured, and it requires to be unscrewed from the wall. This process was found too tedious for these perilous moments; I have ordered the frame to be broken, and the canvas taken out. It is done! and the precious portrait placed in the hands of two gentlemen of New York, for safe keeping. And now, dear sister, I must leave this house, or the retreating army will make me a prisoner in it by filling up the road I am directed to take.
I confess to noting nothing profound by this juxtaposition, but she simply crows with delight at the thought.
*Puh-leeze, Dear Readers, I would not put even The Beckster in a life-size mason jar full of mine own poo.
Instead, I would employ my extensive training in the Fine Arts.