“I’m sorry, but I don’t do erotic art. I’m sure another gourd artist would be happy…”
“Look, I saw your website, and you’re the gal to paint my penis.”
“Not anymore. Since I began that correspondence course to become a Nun, I vowed not to have any more dicks in my life. It’s against my future religion; not to mention my memory isn’t what it used to be.”
“I brought selfies.”
“How about a nice peapod? I’ve got smaller sizes in back; should work the same.”
“Are you trying to be funny?”
“Always. Actually, I can’t believe this conversation.”
“You artists have lost your freedom of expression. You can’t say no; not if you don’t want a federal case.”
“For what?”
“Discrimination, plus you embarrassed me with that peapod crack.”
“So you’d sue me for modesty and sarcasm? I'm happy to sell you anything I've already painted for the same price I'd charge anybody else. Why, then, are you forcing me to act against my (moral) grain and making me out to be a bigot? Just because I'm not as enthralled with your privates as you?
"I don’t want to paint Nazis in white hoods, either; but if David Duke comes a-calling will I have to paint that, too? I’ll give up art before I’m forced to produce propaganda like some fascist state.”
“Paint my penis or call your lawyer.”
“I don’t have a lawyer. You want me to include that chain-thing, too?”
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