This may be the last vestige of a dead species, a race of clowns whose “funny” wide-brimmed pants have evolved so that he can trap food in his pants, like a baleen whale with a mouth filled with seltzer water.
Anyway, it seems weirdly tragicomic that he’s used for an ashtray now. But he’s smiling, so he must be into it.
“Let me cradle your cigarettes in my hands, that not a speck of ash smirch the floor nor an errant cinder burns your finger. Let me ignite my sixth chakra with the incense and smouldering red-gold of your clove. Let me…let me hold your butts.”
This is not a healthy obsession, not even for a clown. Maybe that’s why they need the seltzer squirt bottles and whipped cream pies down the pants, to deal with some of the second- and third-degree burns. Maybe they should start using pantsfull of aloe vera lotion. But that could get expensive.
Not only is he grown through some mysterious natural process into a nearly perfect funnel, but he’s also somehow grown a single, massive tripod foot. He’s a genetically perfect ashtray.
Savers on South Lamar, Austin