Orange is, what one might call, an unwitting participant in the steady brigade of mutant politicians strong-arming their way through Washington. One such behemoth is particularly “luminescent” like a psychotic azalea or a schizophrenic cantaloupe. Living deep inside the gilded palace of his own radioactive mind, this orange corruption has taken root in the collective American consciousness to the point where ordinary folk believe he is indeed the next coming of Christ. (For the record, Christ was not a stalwart supporter of tanning salons, nor did he ever brag about grabbing someone’s pussy as he was too busy performing actual verifiable miracles!)

Some call him the Orange Tampon and others the Gilded Turd, but whatever your pet name for this marmalade monstrosity, the fact he is ORANGE is inescapable – a glowering, cream sickle hue – (imagine tangerine on a get fat fast diet, or a glob of spilled sherbet melting on the sidewalk). His is the kind of orange you don’t come back from like syphilis, or five thousand pounds of stale Doritos or the famous London fire of 1666. Such an onslaught of orange will inevitably poison all the wells, lead to mass suicides, the complete eradication of personal integrity, moths flying backwards, and dogs pissing in jars in anticipation of the coming rapture.

Orange tries desperately to distance himself from the scourge that is the malevolent miscreant, but there is only so much he can do given the fact the entirety of ITS body is florescent orange. This is a fact that regularly embarrasses him as he has tried on numerous occasions to convince the general population that orange is not responsible for all the atrocities brought on by the malevolent marauder, claiming IT is more pink and yellow than orange, and why should orange take all the blame anyway? After all, many other colors have been implicated in the fall of mankind – most notable among them being green. One only has to gaze upon the orange ogre, slumped as he is in his corner counting his precious money, to recognize finally that we are in Hell.

  • Rothko, Orange and Yellow, 1956.

  • Lari Pittman, Birthplace, 1984.

  • Joan Mitchell, Orange, 1981.