Never Dress Like Your Furniture Unless You're Rich

There was a swanky photo spread in the <gag>New Yorker</gag> featuring super rich people/hipsters posing on nubby worn carpets with books on the floor (they’re too poor for shelves, apparently — or the cool thing is to pretend to be too poor for shelving) and questionable art.

“Shhhh,” says this musician, too poor to afford shelving. “I’m not supposed to have my shoes on the Chesterfield.”

It was very important that hardly anyone in the spread wear shoes or socks. I know it’s supposed to evoke a relaxing-at-home feel, but everyone is robotically posed and it feels forced and awkward.

I can almost smell the saturated seventies avocado theme below: stale cigarette smoke, old carpet, feet:

Nubby-chic carpets in avocado probably literally from the seventies.

My grandmother once found a nest of buttons, doll heads, coins, and socks in her garden shed that a little woodrat probably spent its whole life collecting what she trashed in minutes. Professional Feminist Sellout Gloria Steinem’s dresser top made me think of it:

Steinem’s rat’s nest.

Al Sharpton formally relaxes in front of a portrait of himself and a spotless, bougie-ass pet enclosure that may be his actual bed, we don’t know:

But let’s talk about this magnificent pièce de résistance, shall we? Only the truly rich, like George Soros’s nepo baby here and Anthony Weiner’s ex-wife/Hillary Clinton’s right-hand-woman can afford to dress like their furniture while glowering at the camera, as uber-rich people do apparently:

Is that chair sitting on a chair?

They’re not only in sync with one another — they’re in sync with their literal furniture, because they’re so much better and richer than you. Can YOU afford to dress like your chair? <laughs haughtily> I thought not. His platform sneaks are serving don’t-care Clydesdale hooves while his strained man-pris allow just enough of the pale, sausage cankle to peek through. Her trousers are meticulously un-hemmed, giving a laissez faire attitude to puddles, piss, or any other liquid or grime one might encounter while walking NYC streets. (Let’s be real, though, when you have more money than the world you don’t actually walk on NYC streets. You’re flitted to and fro on the backs of fat cherubs with wings made of dollar bills.)

The lady below is partially responsible for the scourge of modern art infecting culture. Here she sits sadly alone in her one chaired, Upper East Side expanse. The black canvas with the red stripe behind her probably cost eleventy frillion dollars.

Agnes Gund and her dog take turns sharing the one chair in their penthouse.

While all of the art displayed was peak modernist puke neat, there was one gem: this fabulous Garbage Pail Kids display. I would punch a kid on the playground to score one of these cards back in the day.

Pee-wee AND Garbage Pail Kids? 100.

There was a major exception in the spread, that being Martin Scorsese’s goth dream which checks every box and is immune from criticism due to its absolutely perfect nature. Stained glass? CHECK. Cool art? CHECK. Probably special crucifix suggested by the glass encasement? CHECK.

Perfection. No critique.

In closing, if you want to convince people of your higher social status, buy bad art and dress like your couch.

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