Ever wonder why artists have these mannequins? I certainly never use mine. Perhaps they provide a very rough idea of perspective to some, but the anatomy is so vague and nondescript that it’s less than useless. So why do I own one? Well, because the Intergalactic Federation of Artist Standards requires all artists to prominently display one of these articulated dust-collectors near their work-space. It’s how we in-the-know identify each other, like a secret handshake. Of course, one would think the old-underwear-turned-paint-rags, poor sleep habits, and empty bank-account would be sufficient to identify one as an artist, but, no, apparently only a dingus like this is sufficient to convey to the world that one occupies the ranks of creative minds. Ever noticed how artists who have died in obscurity failed to get one of these? Laugh if you will, but my little wooden-head has performed wonders for me. As long as I’ve owned mine, I’ve never had a million-dollar deal go sour. Of course, I’ve never had a million-dollar deal, but that’s besides the point.