BOSTON-- As I begin, I assure you that I am a genius

and that the words I use, dangerous weapons in the hands of one less skilled, hit their targets with an accuracy unimaginable by those with shrivelled pea-brains. I am a ninja of the wit, my jabs rarely, if ever, dodged. Indeed, my pen, now poisoned, now panaceal, is a weapon as deadly as Hannibal's elephants. In the presence of nihilistic pages, irony-smattered pages, cutesy-putesy pile of shit pages, what can stand out? Postmodern pastiche? Le old news. "Everything's already been done" has already been done. You're saying, "Hey man! Tell me something I don't know! Point me towards the deep stuff, yo!" Here's something new: You are rich and stupid. We are going to trick you out of your money because you have no style or taste. Moi, je dis que les mots sont rien! Et je dis que le Francais, c'est rien! Now I have stopped speaking French. What's the difference? I could speak Australian and still get your money! Haha! We're on the same page, and a flat page it is. Open your wallet. This manifesto is a work of genius that cannot be equalled by any other in history. The Zen-like truths contained heroin. The buddhists were on smack. OK? Glad that's settled. We understand Lacan. We read Hegel before breakfast. We dream about Tristan Tzara's autograph. Andy Warhol is at the bottom of my coffee mug. Appreciation of the old masters notwithstanding, we must insult, devalue and mock the entire history of the arts. Picasso wanted to paint like a child. He spent his whole life trying to paint like a child. Why didn't he just pillage the local kindergarten during naptime and sign his name to their art? I'll tell you why: He didn't think of it! He wasted his time. Words spill onto the page like so many oysters opening in the caustic wind of fish, words not unlike the seizures of a clown stricken suddenly with epilepsy, whose contortions please the audience more than his jestings of only a moment ago. Picasso wanted to paint like a child. He spent his whole life trying to paint like a child. Why didn't he just pillage the local kindergarten during naptime and sign his name to their art? Huh? Answer me! I'll tell you why: He didn't think of it! He wasted his time. We will deliver your indie rock youth to you in the guise of high art. No bones about it. It's worth nothing but you need it. So what can you do? If you're in on it early, you can jump off it early. That's the best you can hope for. No matter how little or how much you admit it, you are groping in the dark for anything that will stroke your withered ego to make you feel smarter, sexier, more NOW. Fraud art. High culture has never been raped so hard. And rape has never beeen so NOW. We all want to be smart, sexy and cultured. But we're products of a trash culture. We have short attention spans. Fraud art is consistent on some levels and inconsistent on other levels. If by some remote stroke of luck you happen to find an inconsistency that matters, we will immediately conceive an entirely new language which you don't understand, and proceed to prove our points using a symbolic system that you cannot grasp. As artists we are masters of our inconsistencies - and YOURS. Trust only cigarettes - they will never leave you. We are drug-addled geniuses. You are ablative-addled private school pussies. -Spinktzsarus Nil, Boston Correspondent © k-band, 1999