JFC No One Thinks They're Orange Juice is a hallucinatory snapshot rendered in toxic orange and oil-slick black, a silkscreen fever dream caught mid-transmission. The feline—half-melted, half-mythic—lounges beneath the dripping word Acid, as if broadcast from a zine left too long in the sun or the last frame of a corrupted cartoon reel.
This painting is a burn mark, a signal flare from the underside of pop culture. Sharp-edged and bleached in high-contrast, it pulses with the aesthetic residue of underground press, rave flyers, and bad trips. The lines drip like time-lapse scars. The cat, all stare and static, becomes an accidental prophet—lounging in the ruins of print media and psychoactive nostalgia.
It’s not just a picture. It’s a warning dressed as a poster. A familiar animal infected with semiotic rot. This isn’t Warhol’s cat—it’s the ghost of Xerox art, vibrating at the edge of the grid.
