Haunted Life Sized Statue of Jason Kenney

Standing at a little over eight inches, this is a life size statue of Jason Kenney. The accuracy of this piece is exceptional: His big ol’ dick, six rock hard breasts, those dead eyes, them grabby li’l hands.

 

I bought it from a low level UCP staffer I met at the Antiques Roadshow. An unremarkable smear of a lad in an ill fitted suit with a wispy attempt at a beard. He was fresh out of school with a Poli Sci degree and a six-figure income. His name was Matt and he spoke in a nasal, spittle-washed cadence.

 

“The owner of this will be granted riches beyond compare. While doctors flee, children fall ill with a strange new sickness, and industry turns to ash in the wind, your pockets will bulge with ill-gotten wealth. May your dry toast drench in avocado. Family becomes hot slabs of prime rib dinner. Hang your jaw slack and let your eyes roll into the back of your head, you’re under the big tent now.”

 

Thick strings of saliva lashed from his mouth as he rattled with virginal enthusiasm for the strange figure clutched in his hands. The statue itself began to emit a low tingling mewl as its knobby fingers weakly grasped at my pockets.

 

“Ah, sick, fuck, disgusting” I explained.

 

“Don’t be afraid!” then he angled the Kenney downward and applied an eyedropper of world class Alberta crude to its thin, sexless lips. Kenney stirred to life and crawled into my pockets. Hamhanded exploration of my loins gave way to a perturbed elation. I could feel the cash in my wallet dissolving. Floating phantom digits of a bank account wheeled lower and lower below zero until they were a great tentacle pulling me deep into unfathomable deficit. The world pulled away from me and Matt’s face broke into shrinking refracted rays of light. His shrieking laugh was a dubstep rumble by the time it reached my ears.

 

I awoke with a gasp two days later in a moldy bathtub filled with silty tailings. The room was empty, save the newspaper clippings, all dated 2019, that pasted to the walls floor to ceiling. Each was an earnest early work heralding a rosy future for Jason Kenney’s Alberta. An oily utopia of jobs, prosperity, and cultural capital. They were old, yellowed, dated.

 

A sepia patch of translucent articles over the window showed the silhouette of The Bow. The rank stink of semen provided incontrovertible proof of what adhesive was used to stick the botched propaganda to the walls of this decrepit office tower.

 

Symmetrical scars on my torso indicated both my kidneys had been harvested, and they cut out my tongue. But, overall, I was heartened. At the end of a lanyard around my neck was an ID card indicating I had joined the bloated and overpaid ranks of Kenney’s personal team. Blessed was I, with one of the few remaining jobs in this cursed province.

 

Now it is my duty to pass this haunted talisman on, so that you too may make a quick buck for you and your friends by levying a fiscal reckoning on the huddled, desperate, citizens of Alberta. If unlike the elected officials of Alberta you’re not interested in an extremely public and embarrassing end run grift on a hobbled province, I suppose you could purchase this statue purely on aesthetic grounds.

 

This one of a kind piece of hideous handiwork sits somewhere at the visual crossroads of ET, a fetal pig, and a family’s pariah uncle. You could use it to bookend your collection of Ayn Rand first editions, or it could augment the secret bones you have boxed up under the stairs. Please note the statue can’t stand upright, so if you want it erect you’ll have to prop it up with something that can functionally carry its own weight.

 

All images and artist's statements are copyrighted by Tim Mikula. The use of any image or text from this site is prohibited unless prior written permission from the artist is obtained.