Status Updates From Clown Gravy

"One thing about Texans. We know who the fuck we are. We ain’t confused. I know I got a big white dick. I know I love me some pink pussy. I know Reagan was the best damn president ever but Trump is a close second. I know I like my beer cold and my steak hot and bloody. I love blow jobs, coconut pie, Dallas Cowboys and the Texas flag. I sleep just fine at night and dream of big white titties."

"Look. Dude. I didn’t ask to be born white like Jesus. It just happened that way."

And I was like. And I was literally. And I was totally. Seriously. I can’t even. Oh my actual god. For real though. Legit. Lit as fuck. Woke as fuck. Are we in the San Fernando Valley or are we in Appalachia or are we in the ghetto or are we in the barrio or are we in the trailer park or are we on a reality TV show updating our Facebook status (it’s like literally complicated) while we get our toenails painted?

Take tofu and kale and green tea and avocados and almonds and spinach smoothies and basic bitch SJW Facebook posts. Oh California. So vastly superior. California can teach Texas a thing or two or three about race relations in 21st Century America. [...] California rocks and all the hookers in the Tenderloin know it! The thing is…California is a kind of heaven. You have to die to go there.

Texas our Texas. All hail the mighty state. Don’t look at the teenage pregnancies. Please don’t pay attention to Uvalde, Texas. Please don’t scrutinize May 24, 2022. Please don’t take away our guns. Don’t Google James Byrd Jr. dragging in Jasper, Texas. Don’t remember The Alamo. Don’t look at the CPS caseloads. Look away. Look away. Look away. Dixie Land.

I’m not cut out for vanilla Five Below Bath & Body Works monogamy and the Olive Garden Cracker Barrel status quo.

“I don’t turn you on?”
“No. I have a strict no assholes policy.”
“I don’t like assholes either. I’m all about the pussy.”

Love. Love. Love. Love like your life depends on it. It does.

“I love your brain, baby.”
“Thanks, baby. I love your brain, too.”
“I think you love my tits.”
“Of course I love your tits. I love all of you.”

It’s all Barry Manilow’s fault. Blame Bruce Springsteen. Blame Ronald Reagan. Blame baby powder. Blame Mommy. Blame Daddy. Blame Wolverine. Blame last year’s plumber. Blame tomorrow’s aesthetician. The mortician won’t know the difference.

“Are you an Aries?”
“Nah. Capricorn.”
“You must have Aries rising.”
“I have dick rising.”
“Oh, honey. Tell me more tell me MORE.”

The rules are there ain’t no rules.

The blonde in filmy pink. The brunette in 1975 orange. The soft glow of motel room rain lamp and the buzz of fried chicken porno television.

“Look, baby. I don’t want anything weird, dig? I’m a straight vanilla son of a bitch.”
“So you want a half and half?”
“I like my coffee black.”

Live. Die. Sweat. Be done with the sweat. Does any of this matter? Probably not. Maybe a group of angels or aliens or what the hell ever are watching it all play out, laughing, crying, applauding, yawning, scratching their celestial asses, munching buttered and salted popcorn, washing down the buttered and salted popcorn with cold Mexican beer. Ridiculous. Change the channel, already.

Don’t mind me. This isn’t about me at all. I’m the crazy eHarmony reject smelly on the futon cutting up magazines and Christmas cards and calling it art. I’m the flower, walled. I’m the handicap, stalled. I’ve got gall and guts and not much else. This is not a complaint. This is a history of San Antonio, Texas.

There’s no subway in San Antonio so I ride VIA. That’s the bus. The 100 Primo is my favorite. I get on that motherfucker and sit way in the back and close my eyes and enjoy the smooth ride, pretending like I’m Cher riding in her limo. Sometimes I sneak a drink from my Sunkist bottle. Of course it’s never really Sunkist (what do I look like? A Beach Boy?) but Sunny D mixed with bottom shelf vodka.

It isn’t hard to find a foundation to match my soul in the discount bin at Sephora.

I’m an orphan and the last of my line. I’m not sure if this is a tragedy. If it is, it is one of many. People die every fucking second in various ways. And so it goes. Vonnegut said so.

“Do you miss me?” Jessie asked Kirk when he called. All she wanted was for him to beg her to come back, to say something she’d heard in an Air Supply song or on a “90210” episode during an especially soulful exchange between Dylan and Brenda.
“I miss your pussy. Could you just put it in a box and Fed Ex it to me?”

Jessie turned it into a poem, same as always. All the trash and horror of her life ended up in bleak poems that did not rhyme.

“Your pussy is wet.”
“My pussy is a traitor and an idiot.”

Jessie sucked Kirk’s dick with tears in her eyes. She felt so Billie Holiday, so Janis Joplin. So Amy Winehouse. Love was such a losing game. She wasn’t winning much with her industrious, heartfelt blow jobs. Knowing this inspired the tears.

We like our brand of religion. God the Father. Jesus the son. Holy The Spirit. Casper The Friendly Ghost. No American ghosts are friendly. I hate to be the one to break it to you, amigo. American ghosts speak in blood and smoke signals and guttural cries. American ghosts MEOW.
-from American Meow

The cloudless energy of the forefinger and manic buzz of the clitoris and horses racing across Louisiana and Oklahoma and C.S. Lewis on Uranus and Lewis Carroll on Neptune and Alice in a John Lennon song and the walrus in a saturated slasher movie from 1981 and the brain on Paxil and the brain on Koyaanisqatsi and roast beef and ORGANIC TOMATOES and multiple orgasms and Barbie stealing pink high heels from Skipper

Jesus wants us to enjoy our Great Value sex lives.