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Serghei Stanislov Stanislovchjk

Serghei Stanislov Stanislovchujk examined the freshly hewn painting on the easel.

"You have crippled her thigh?" he asked.  He dragged his finger along the freshly crippled thigh and smelt the rubbings.  "I don't like your timber of red.  Lighten up a bit, we are not in Siberia." And he tilted back his head and laughed.  Bits of chicken and foul odors escaped into the air.  He wiped his finger on his pants.

"Sri Stanislov," said the painter.  "Please, reconsider.  My wife is at home with the measles.  Please,  I haven't eaten in three days."

"Three days," said Stanislov.  "You're.... wife?"  Stanislov's face grew red and spittle formed at the corner of his mouth.  His eyes turned black.  "You're wife!  Tell your wife to eat her shoes!  And tell her to cook some shoe for yourself also!!!"  Stanislov took off his boot and threw it at the painter.  The painter grabbed it, bowed and left.

Staislov approached the next painter.  "All this talk of wives and measles is making me hungry, eh," he said, and clapped the painter on the back.  "Eh!" He said it again and grabbed the man's shoulder and shook it and laughed at him, and bits of sausage escaped his mouth, and other foul vapours did as well.

"Yes, Stanislov.  Hungry Sir.  Yes, I will get hungry with talk of wives and measles."  He laughed nervously.

"What have we got here, Andrei Andrichuk Andreisolavin?"

"It is a woman, sir.  She has just stubbed her toe on the couch foot.  You know when that happens.  It is terribly painful."

"Ah, yes.  Of course.  But who would do such a thing?"

"It is my wi... my wi... errrrr.. my wifuncle, sir.  That is my uncle's wife."

"So your aunt then, is it?"

"I suppose so.  Wonderful weather we're having."

"Please, don't mention the weather."

The painter hung his head.

"So, you have painted your wifuncle, then, have you?  And you think that's fine.  You think we can all walk around painting and thinking about our wifuncle's then can you?  And with stubbed toes none the less?"

"Well, I don't know about you, but I find it incredibly difficult to walk and paint," the painter replied and looked around the room for validation of his freshly hewn joke.  But all he met were downcast eyes, a cleared throat, and a man fingering the beads of his rosary.  The painter's eyes made their way back to Stanislov.  The red timber of Stanislov's face saturated toward a fallen apple at dusk at the end of the season.  Some small wisps of smoke escaped his nose and danced into the air.   He fingered the freshly wrung paint of the stubbed toe and tasted it.

"Mmmmmmmmm!!!  Mmmmm-hmmmmmm!  MMMMMM--MHMMMMMMM!!!!"  Stanislove took the painting from the easel and chompped it down his gullet in no less than 5 bites.  He shouted at the painter with a mouth full of canvas and paint.  The paint flew from his mouth and splattered the painters face.

"How's that for weather!  How's that for weather!! Cloudy with a chance of paint!"

The painter grabbed his easel and scurried for the door.  Stanislov pursued him as best he could, limping from the missing boot, and slow on his wits with a belly full of canvas.  The painter escaped and closed the door behind him otherwise unharmed.  The chemicals from the paint, and eating a painting in general, had skewed some of Stanislov's senses.  He lurched into the middle of the painting circle.

"You call yourselves artists!" He yelled.  "You sit there in your fancy chairs with your fancy hairs!"  He pointed his finger at Maxamillian Maxiechuk Maxiohumpnslavin and rushed toward him with finger extended.  Maxie sprang away just in time to avoid Stanislov crashing into his fancy chair.  He brushed away some of the fancy hairs from his eyes and breathed a sigh.  "Phew," he thought.

Stanislov was on his hands and knees wretching.  They said he had a digestive system comparable to an aligator.  Stanislov chunked up bits of acid covered canvas with a reddended hue.  He ate the chunks again.  "Waste not want not!"  he cried.  Tears were streaming down his cheeks.  It's true, this had been an especially hard month for him, and the artists, and the faculty, were willing to tolerate some outbursts, but it was getting out of hand.  "How much can we tolerate," they would ask eachother in the lunch room.  Certainly eating a painting was the limits of tolerability.

Stanislov managed to get to his feet.  "Have a bath," he shouted.  "And some wine.  Think of how awful you all are.  I want freshly hewn canvases on Monday!"  He took a flask from his side pocket and drank deeply.  Some say he drank the tears of artists.  He spat some on the ground, and managed to find the door and leave.

The painting circle listened to the familiar thrashing down the hall which succeeded most of his exits.  When it was quiet Maximillian said, "Now that's what I call creative criticism
!"  And everyone laughed.  And their laughter rang through the halls and all the way to hell. 

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