This couldn’t have come at a better time. Tomorrow morning we’re publishing a terrific and insightful piece written by Yervand Kochar that looks at the juvenile quality of this kind of art in a way I don’t want to spoil but urge you to take a look at. But I’m not stealing anyone’s thunder by saying how silly this has all gotten. What was once brave is now proof of your conformist bona fides. What was once provocative is now expected. What once ginned up outrage is now hardly worth the rolling of one’s eyes. Where once talent was required smug will now do.

Case in point? Via Gateway Pundit, this was one of the paintings used to advertise the opening of a new art gallery right here in Los Angeles. I say “was” because  the opening was way back in January. How pathetic is it that a double shot of blasphemy and Palin-hate took over two months to bubble its way into these here Internets. Where was the outrage, America?

Hello?

Anyone?

Yawn.

My guess is that these gallery owners, who obviously put a lot of work into outraging those of us on the right with an entire exhibit based on blasphemy, we’re pretty disappointed — not unlike Kevin Smith and his “Red State” debacle  – that no one cared. But that’s because after decades of this kind of “art”  – much of it funded by taxpayers — the only way to shock us anymore is by creating something, you know, beautiful, ennobling and uplifting. But that requires actual talent and humanity, so there you go…

So what happened at the R&R gallery during those two weeks in February? Did the Beautiful People show up and get blown away by all the new awesome talent they discovered after gazing upon Marlboro Jesus? 

Nope.

You see, it’s not about art anymore, it’s about The Smug. To be an artist worthy of a gallery showing, years of schooling and struggle to perfect your craft is no longer necessary. All you need is the talent of a frustrated high school art teacher and a concept that will help the Beautiful People feel superior and sophisticated as they stroll through the gallery, sipping champagne and snickering at the bitter-clingers

Give ‘em a reason to hate, and they will come.

1) Go to the right places.  I went to the Playboy Mansion to find an agent, and I did.  I was 21 and a Baptist virgin, and I found Betty from the William Morris commercial department there.  Check.

2) Wear something provocative to a Hollywood premiere so you can get free publicity.  I did that.  When I was an SNL castmember trying to increase my movie roles, I attended some Tom Hanks/Meg Ryan premiere (go figure – it was a flop!) in a see-through black shirt with a flowered bra underneath.  I felt ashamed, but I did get my picture in a few magazines.  All press is good press, and press leads to opportunity.

3) Date famous men or up-and-coming smart Jewish comedy writers.  I went on a date with Arthur Godfrey right before he died, and ten years later, when I was 30, I asked Judd Apatow to escort me to some Century City event.  I was pretty much invisible to him the whole night, but we did get our picture in People Magazine. 

That is about it in my list of cliché things I have done to help my career move along.

Well, today I walked out of a Judd Apatow movie crying.  It was the scene where the obese homosexual is fortune-telling by looking at the bowels of a sheep that has been sodomized by a person.  The movie was “Year One.”  I tried to be open-minded as I watched the first 20 minutes of masturbation, fornication, circumcision jokes, continual penis references, bestiality, violence, and Biblical blasphemy.  I told myself this was a PG-13 movie and the writers were “lost” so they didn’t know how vulgar they were being. I looked at the ten-year-old and his father sitting next to me.  I must be old-fashioned or something.  But, then I noticed no one was laughing.  No one was walking out either.  I was hoping that the crude jokes were flying over the heads of the poor children who were sitting there wide-eyed and innocent.  My daughter is 15 and she loves Jack Black and the guy from “Juno,” so I thought we could have a Mom/teenager date.  I asked myself, “Vicki, is this movie making you feel good?”  Myself replied, “This movie is making me angry, very sad, hopeless, and dirty-feeling.”  As the onscreen obese gay man poked at the bloody intestines and told the fifth anal sex joke, I looked at my daughter, and we got up and walked out.  I started crying in the parking lot as we walked to our car.  I am not from this world.  I am an alien.  No wonder me and Apatow never hit it off.