The Yartz

This could turn out to be long-winded and rambling, so I'll summarise it here:
Artists are parasites; pretentious, self serving fuckwits.
Here endeth the summary.

I don't like artists. Which is to say, I don't like anybody who describes themself as an artist, like it's some sort of badge of merit. People who think that making pictures or sculptures, or getting about on stage pretending to be someone else somehow makes them into superior beings beyond the comprehension of mere mortals.
When I am in a position to do so, I am a fairly regular gallery visitor, a less regular theatergoer and a very rare attender of (classical) concerts. I have never attended an opera and have no intention of doing so in the future - why anybody would actually pay to go and listen to somebody be in agony in a foreign language is beyond me. At galleries I am ignored, at theatres and concerts I am treated as if I am retarded. Why? Because I dress for these occasions pretty much the same way as if I were going to the pub to see a band. I don't do Art-speak. I don't have a clique or coterie of admirers. Worst of all - I go there to be entertained.
I don't want to get cramp in the frontal lobe trying to decipher some sort of obscure message hidden in the subtext of a stilted script. If I don't understand the imagery of having 128 bricks all stacked neatly on the floor* then the fault lies with you, not me. I am, at least according to four separate IQ tests conducted during my schooldays, a genius. Officially. Therefore if I don't 'get it' it's your fault. Even if I did 'get it', so what? It's still 128 bricks. How is that 'art'?
I think the rot set in when art ceased to be self-funding (although that wouldn't explain Ken Done or Bryce Courtenay). When painters, writers etc., had to actually provide something that somebody would pay for it provided a stimulus to excellence. These days artists aspire to come up with an idea for something new to put on an arts grant application.
On a different front; why is it that in popular music cover bands are nearly at the bottom of the heap, but in 'classical' music, my tax dollars are going to subsidise the equivalent of cover bands so that some bunch of poonces from South Yarra and Double Bay (all with seven figure incomes) can go and whinge about welfare cheats during the intermission?
And the next time I'm in a conversation with anybody in these industries and they start crapping on in any way about their 'art' I'm going to kick them in the nuts. If they are female, I'll pour cashews down their knickers, then I'll kick'em in the nuts. Fuck I hate artists.
When I was eight years old my brother and I went to stay at my Aunt Em's house for a week. Em's (late) husband was a fairly big time barrister who had represented a few arts-types and so my Aunt knew a few of them. She was invited to a dinner party by one of them which took place during our visit so she brought us along. A few weeks earlier some dickhead (which may have been the host of the party, I don't actually know) had dumped a dead cow at the front of the National Gallery in Melbourne to protest against meat eating. The dinner party was getting close to the eating dinner stage of the party when the host announced that there would be chicken available for those that want it. I imagine this caused quite a bit of discussion, but I don't remember any. A little while later some of the host's lackeys brought out about a dozen (live) chooks in a long wire cage which they laid in the centre of the table. The host announced that anybody who wanted chicken for dinner should select which one they wanted and then kill it. He probably had a smirk on his face. It was probably wiped off when, after a brief discussion, my brother picked out the chook we had selected, holding it by the body. I grabbed the head. He twisted one way, I twisted the other.
My Aunt still thinks it was the funniest thing she has ever seen. We didn't stay for dessert.
*Actual exhibit in (I think) the Tate Gallery.