My Jell-O art is something you need to respect. Please take your index finger out of your mouth. I am aware raspberry is delicious, but with one jab you incurred serious damage to my Jell-O rendition of the Parthenon. I could only fix the roof with lime because I ran out of raspberry. My structure looks color schematically challenged because of you.
Last summer at Point Pleasant Beach, you collapsed an entire wall of my sand depiction of Saint John the Divine Cathedral shooing away a harmless seagull. People sobbed openly. You shrugged. Not three weeks ago you ate the left ear of my Frankie Valli spaghetti sculpture, prominently displayed at the Hoboken Italian Festival. Vito, my sponsor, was red in the face. When you said you were hungry I did not translate that as ravenous. Had you given me another five minutes I would have been back holding a sausage and pepper sandwich.
You knew when you took your vows you married an artist embodying a wide palette of interests. My Cheese Whiz constructions seemed to attract you during our courtship. Yet you’ve done nothing but sabotage my work. Perhaps you and your mixed media woodchip collages feel overshadowed. I have always supported your concepts, to the point of spending precious twilight hours hunting down fragmented wood in dangerous neighborhoods where I was almost beaten senseless more than once. When they broke my hand I thought my creative career was over. But I sucked it up, learned to mash potatoes with my other hand and went on to capture the Lisbon top award for my mashed potato sculpture of Francisco Franco.
Remember the sex we had that night?
You were so proud of me.
Now I can’t turn my back on you. I’m giving you fair warning, my dear. You put one finger on my sugar free chocolate pudding rendition of the Suez Canal and this union is finished.
I know what’s bothering you. It is not my fault my Gelato portrait of your mother did not meet expectations. She kept moving as I tried to work. You need to forgive and move on, perhaps to ceramic bowls.
No, I won’t lick your finger. – Joe Del Priore