Why Did the Chicken Cross the Road?
Original Jokes About The Suburban and The Poor Farm By the Artists Who Have Exhibited There

Green Hall Gallery, Yale University School of Art
New Haven, USA
January 28 - February 12, 2012

My submissions (those with an asterisk were not included):

Idiot brother's intro:

Why did the chicken cross the road? *
It took the Green line to Ridgeland.

Why did the chicken cross the road?

Why did the chicken cross the road?

Why did the chicken cross the road?

Why did the chicken cross the road?

And now my brother, with a Suburban roast, roast chicken jokens….

"Roast Chicken"

Why did the chicken cross the road?
Because it was from the neighborhood and it needed to avoid eye contact.

What do you get when you cross a Poor Farm with a Suburban?
A Purumbum tchhhhh.

How many Michelle Grabners does it take to change a lightbulb?

How many Brad Killams does it take to change a lightbulb?
Dumb question, I'm sorry. I'll change it myself.

True story: so I was at the Suburban installing this gigantic styrofoam bear bottom that I had to cut into two pieces to get in and I still couldn't get it in, and it's 9PM and the BKMGs are asleep, it looks like, I'm from the city, so I don't go knocking on people's doors, or call them if their lights are out, and I'm trying to jam this pair of solid bear legs through the door of the little gallery in the quietest way possible, cause 9PM must be like 2AM for people who wake up at 4AM, but this bear won't go in. And I had this fantasy a while back, after seeing a DiSuvero show, that I wanted to propose a work that just barely fit into the Suburban, and we'd have to take out the door, not just unhinge it, but, like, remove the door fixture, maybe even an inch of concrete, and it would just be like three iron bars, whatever it took to be just big enough to not make it, and then rebuild the door, and so here I am, years later, jumpkicking a giant white bear's ass into the Suburban, and it's squeaking like crazy, cause it's styrofoam against steel, and it's causing all these styrofoam shavings to go everywhere, and the door is not happy, and my friend Charles is with me, and we cut the thing in two with a hunting knife, and then, even then, it's hell getting it in there: I'm kicking, jumping into it, forcing, pounding on it, clouds of tiny styrofoam orbs mingling with the snow in the "yard", spine curdling styrosqueaks echoing down the wintry streets. Long story short. *

So Michelle and Brad walk into a bar and the bartender says,
"Hey Michelle and Brad"
And Michelle and Brad say,
"Hi Phil the bartender. The usual."
"Shot and a beer, shot and a beer"