The Painting is not shit,' said Lucien. 'I know,' said Henri. 'That was just part of the subterfuge. I am of royal lineage; subterfuge is one of the many talents we carry in our blood, along with guile and hemophilia.
his hero Millet had admonished. Auguste Renoir had told him. Ah, but what they hadn't said, hadn't warned him about, was you could see.
Of course they won't bloody remember, they'll be dead.' Then she called him a name in a dead language that translated, roughly, to 'poop on a stick,' but sounded more succinct, like this: 'Of course they won't bloody remember, they'll be dead, Poopst...
I love you, Lucien, but I am a muse, you are an artist, I am here to make you comfortable.
I like a girl with a substantial bottom,' said Renoir, drawing in the air the size bottom he preferred.
Whistler,' Manet called. 'How's your mother?
But she's a redhead, so she's probably evil, even at her tender age." "I thought you liked redheads." "I do. What's your point?
...and thus he found his single source of joy in the society of other people: frightening the girls with his penis.
