I’m Beginning to Suspect That You, My Roommate, Are Not Famed Artist Banksy, by Max Knoblauch

Hey Kevin, hey Banksy, come on in and have a seat. Thanks so much for taking the time to chat. I know we’re all incredibly busy—me with my blogging, Kevin with his schoolwork, and you, Banksy, with your subversive and wildly popular international social commentary art. It hasn’t been easy finding time to sit down at the apartment and just talk, so I’m really grateful.

That being said, Kevin and I have been talking, and we’re beginning to suspect that you are not, in fact, famed graffiti artist Banksy.

Now, you’re probably thinking, “Wow. Where is this coming from? I, Banksy, have two roommates who question my identity?” The answer, unfortunately, is yes.

I guess I’ll start with the fact that we never even talked about Banksy until the three of us watched that Banksy documentary on Netflix together. Come to think of it, up until that point in our living arrangement, you had never mentioned any of the following: Banksy, art, politics, society, “the Establishment,” stencils, or Europe. That was my first red flag. But, hey, what do I know? I thought. I’m not Banksy.

And yes, Banksy, I’ve thought about the trust aspect—the real Banksy would need to be absolutely certain that the people he reveals his identity to can be trusted with one of the most well-kept secrets in the world. Believe me, I’ve considered that maybe there was something about the three of us, together, on the futon, watching that documentary that clicked for you. But, at the same time, I feel like the real Banksy wouldn’t live in a three-bedroom, fourth-story walk up in Bushwick, so I don’t know. It’s not adding up, Banksy. It’s really not.

Also, why can’t we call you Greg anymore?

Hold on, before you get defensive, I want to let you know that your identity doesn’t change anything between us. I think I speak for Kevin as well when I say that the three of us have really hit it off these last few months, and I wouldn’t give that up for the world. Who knew that Craigslist could foster friendships like ours? Not me!

But for Christ’s sake, you were saying “Bansky” until like two weeks ago. You heard that too, right Kevin? Even Kevin heard it.

No, I’m not saying this “Just because you spray-painted a penis on my bedroom wall.” Is that one of the main reasons? Sure. But the only reason? No way.

Kevin actually had a good point, and not to bring politics into this, but I just can’t believe that someone as revolutionary as Banksy would be a registered Republican.

And you know what, telling me that I can’t paint over the penis because it’s an “original Banksy” feels like a very “un-Banksy” move to me. I’m no art expert, but you didn’t use a stencil and there isn’t even any social commentary involved. It’s just a penis, and a crude and disproportionate one at that.

Another thing: You work at Macy’s. Do you need to? Is working as a floor salesman in the men’s Nautica section a commentary of some kind? Because I don’t get it, Banksy. Do you get it, Kevin? Nobody gets it.

Now, come on, Banksy. I don’t want to hurt your feelings. That’s not my intention. And hey, who knows, maybe I’m wrong and you are Banksy. Maybe you’re the reclusive and world-renowned artist known as Banksy and I’m just another idiot who doesn’t understand anti-establishmentarianism when it’s staring him right in the face.

But Kevin and I just really don’t think so.

Max Knoblauch is a writer and illustrator in NYC. His work can be found on Mashable, Hot Hot Phone, Pacific Standard, and those are the only places he’s comfortable name-dropping really. Here’s his Twitter.

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