Spencer DeVine, contributor
Let me start off by saying, Mr. Coolidge, that I hope you appreciated the gift I sent you in the mail, as it can be extremely difficult attempting to FedEx your own feces without the suspicions of the driver. I wish you a slow and painful death reminiscent only of the final ring of Dante’s inferno, forever being mashed in the jaws of the horrendous Underlord.
I disliked your painting with dogs playing poker. Here is why, and where the first four stars of this review disappeared to:
I recently had a dinner party ( no, I’m not some sort of socialite, wining and dining, but living comfortably isn’t a crime, Mr. Coolidge) and your painting caused such a havoc that even now I can hardly keep down the Gruyere-injected brioche buns I slaved over.
Dinner was nearly prepared and Doctor Johnson and his wife had just been brought up the drive by Aswald (again, we are not privileged, anyone can have a long drive and a driver, anyone).
“Oh dear, the dogs are about Margaret,” Doctor Johnson yelled to nobody in particular.
Our dogs were unleashed, as our regular dog-watcher had a sick kid or something like that, but this isn’t about them.’
What are we to do? Pate on the way and a shar pei causing dismay (I dabbled in poetry in college, see? I’m grounded). Then I remembered your painting. Everyone knows that art imitates life, so it is a rational assumption that all paintings are real life. I am in the right on this one; sorry, “Cool” guy.
Luckily Charles had recently bought a vintage Victorian Era Poker table for specifically such an occasion, but what fools we were to trust the facade.
Now, Mr. Coolidge, what makes you think it’s ok to portray such lies that dogs can play poker, or are even interested in the sport of it all? Mr. Mumbles and Perfetta Roll not only chewed up the table and its protective zip-up case (Lord knows if they even make those anymore), but couldn’t even pull together a simple check-raise, which any amateur poker player can do.
Your paintings are a tapestry of oil and deception, and I had to skip my afternoon meditation guidance class to clean up the mess.
You are a terrible painter, and not to be trusted by any discerning eye. Also I know a mayor, so watch the hell out, Coolidge.
– Margaret Goldbottom