Dr. Haltiwanger's Art-A-Rama-The Chicken Neck-Sucking Extravaganza

Mark Laba sucks chicken necks. I don't mean that figuratively. I mean he actually buys chicken necks from the butcher (he gets a two-pound bag of them for less than three bucks, the same price the butcher charges people who come in to buy them for their cats and dogs), takes them home, boils them and then sits down to a big plate of wet, limp chicken necks, sucking back the fat and cartilage and pimpled pale skin like they were the last chicken necks on earth. I have no doubt he would have sex with a chicken neck if he could figure out the logistics. His mouth makes lovemaking sounds as it slops about on the bony flesh and saliva smears his lips like chicken fat lipstick on a beak. I've witnessed this although Mr. Laba doesn't know as I was peeking through his window, bits of shrubbery pasted to my skull to camouflage my presence to both him and any neighbourhood watch patrols. Not to mention the police. The reason I preface this new atrocity I'm posting by Mr. Laba with this chicken neck theme is because he calls this one, "Mmmmm, chicken," and may I be the first to point out that the fetal old man in the image bears a strong resemblance to the artist himself, minus the umbilical cord and the visible head vein. Beneath his matted comb-over of course, it's probably head veins galore. All else seems to be a spitting image of the artist as an ancient fetus.
I charged four cans of pork and beans to post this abomination, namely because I found it so distasteful it actually gave me hemorrhoids in my mouth and I've had to add dollops of Preparation H to my bowl of beans to combat this unfortunate result. I don't mind bad art but when that art actually produces inflammations of anal vascular structures in an oral environment, well, that's just too much for me. Freud would have a field day with this oral/anal fixation phenomena resulting in a physical manifestation created by a visual disturbance, but for me the only field day I'm having is that one where I have to bury a dead guinea pig that was hit by a runaway hot dog cart in a vacant lot strewn with the type of debris people are too lazy to haul to the city dump. That's no field of dreams, more like a field of screams, especially from all the hobos sleeping on discarded mattresses, crying out from either alcohol poisoning, the DT's or rats trying to eat their faces. A few of them have old Milton Bradley game pieces lodged in their nostrils but for what reason I'm not able to discern. Perhaps it's some kind of secret hobo code. By the way, that guinea pig's name was Frederick and he's dearly missed by everyone in the rooming-house who knew him. Except for Mr. Tungsten who is convinced his dead wife's soul had entered Frederick's body in order to berate him from beyond the grave. When we asked for proof he claimed they both made the same squeaking noises, wore their hair the same way and both had a fondness for whole grains, semi-brown apple slices and wood shavings.
Anyway, here's Mr. Laba's pen and ink piece of crapola, fit neither for gallery or lining the birdcage of an incontinent parakeet. If walls had hemorrhoids instead of ears, they'd look like this.