Arthur Graham’s Reviews > Clown Gravy > Status Update

"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.