I will tell you all a secret, comrades. I posed for BOTH brain potraits. Several years ago, I was out of work and looking for a job (this as before I came to understand the full glories of the State and the State's programs to justly take and selectively distribute). I saw an ad for an artist's model, and thought "What the Hell; even if I have to get naked, I need a few bucks to pay the rent."
I responded to the ad and found myself in a garret studio facing an odd (so it seemed at the time) man wearing a large mustache and strange woolen cap. He gave me a questionaire to fill out. I thought it unusual for a modeling job, especially given the political nature of the questions, but he explained that he wanted to capture the essence of political thought in the "substructure" of the subject. I thought he meant something like subliminal body language.
Anyhow, I filled out the questionaire, answering no to questions like:
"Do you think you have an entitlement to Other People's Money?"
and
"Do you feel guilty at the advantage your White Privilege has given you?"
and
"Are you aware of the constant class warfare being waged by the Republican Party?"
and yes to questions like
"Are you responsible for your own actions?"
and
"If you do something stupid or irresponsible, should you suffer the consequence?"
and
"Do you believe in inividual rights?"
Some of the answers seemed to excite the odd man and his two companions, one a raw-boned woman wearing a red head scarf and clutching a shovel, the other apparently a man in a dog costume wearing a military hat. At the time, I assumed they were performance artists of some kind. At any rate, they kept whispering to each other, things like "We finally got one!" and such.
The man in the woolen hat then asked me to take a seat, after which he positioned a large device next to my head and flipped a switch. A low humming began as he scurried back behind a thick gray metalic screen. The humming got louder, becoming a throbbing bass note as the man in woolen hat began sketching rapidly.
I passed out.
When I woke up, I felt weightless, like I was floating in a cloud of well-being; like I had been fundamentally transformed. I knew that I was the person that I had been waiting for, and at this moment the planet had begun to cool and the seas had started to recede.
I tried to move my arms and legs and discovered that I didn't have them. I should have been terrified, I know, but somehow I knew that the State would take care of me. Other people had money, after all. Only a selfish racist homophobe would object to paying for my cell phone.
At this point the lady with the shovel came in and plucked me from my jar and laid me on a gleaming table. With two deft strokes of her shovel, she split me in half and then removed a thin slice from the precise center of my being. The man in the woolen cap snatched it up and, while the shovel lady glued me back together with flour-and-water paste, slapped the slice onto a canvas, coated it with acrylic, and started labeling potions of it. All the while the dog (as it suddenly seemed clear to me that it really was a dog in a Soviet Marshal's hat) droned on about what had happened to bring about my awakening.
It seems that the three of them, Red Square, Pinkie, and Marshal Pupovich had hoped to find a conservative and by carefully bombarding his brain with rays from a salvaged and heavily modified Buster Brown shoe-store foot X-ray machine, change him into a Progressive.
As they had Hoped, I had Changed. These illustrations bear witness.
