Eric B. does not Facebook, Tweet or blog. He uses the internet to cruise for sex, like god intended. He has leopard print in every room of his house, save one. And he does not apologize
Heather Corinna is the undisputed diva of online erotica for chicks. She publishes Scarleteen.com and is a sex guru to thousands of teenagers.
David: One of America's finest novelists, Don DeLillo once noted: “Before pop art, there was such a thing as bad taste. Now there's kitsch, schlock, camp, and porn.” We've a sneaking suspicion that Mr. DeLillo might have found inspiration for his quote after appraising the discomfiting color and texture collision of this particular closet-into-a-room conversion. (It's nice to know that DeLillo is a fan of the site -- though how he got privy to our collection of unpublished contenders on our computers is a mystery. Damn Russians -- they are trawling everwhere nowadays!)
Like the occupant of this room, we too would avoid, whenever possible, sitting (sinking?) into the maneating love seat and matching chair ensemble. Unless of course, we were participating in a Keep the USA Green campaign -- but even then the dull, dank Phthalocyanine Green fabric (?) bestows a toxic or mold-like vibe that does little to convey a clean, sprightly American environment. So nix that idea.
So, yes, best stand on the furniture and then leap or tumble-roll out of the room once you've completed your selfie-snapping in this unsafe space. Sometimes, regarding a space or a place -- once is enough. And we concur.
David: In a back office of the popular TLC show Hoarding: Buried Alive, camera men and crew members share private horror tales of the various off-camera discoveries that haunt their sleep at night. These never-featured highlights now reside somewhere within the digital detrius of the computer's vid editing software.
Lucky for us (and you) the following pic was snapped and submitted to our staff at Lurid Digs by a sly TLC intern who was trawling around the officially declared disaster area of this Alabama home.
Apparently, this closet space was utilized by a variety of family member (within a brood of 9 siblings -- all male and all over the age of consent) to snap numerous selfies and dick shots to submit to fans on tumblr and sundry hookup apps.
Per our usual guidelines for amateur self-portrait-takers, we'd like to recommend a simple sheet or blanket to conceal Mammy Yokum's collection of cookware that somehow made its way from Civil War days to this particular moment of 15-minute fame whoring. And maybe just go ahead and lug all the trash on the lower shelf out to the trash, it couldn't hurt as far as general ambiance and atmosphere are concerned.
Also, go ahead and live dangerously and remove the piece of plywood that's attempting to mimic a chair's back. And then go hog wild and rip down dad's old spreadsheet from 1982 too.
It's little tweaking like this that can place the viewer's eye smack dab on the goods being advertised -- a win-win situation for everyone involved.
Eric: With his last breath, our fairy godfather Oscar Wilde lifted his head off the pillow in his shitty apartment, took a look around and declared "Either that wallpaper goes or I do."
I totally understand. I could never get naked, much less dead, in a room where the walls look like embroidery, be it gros point, counted cross-stitch, turkey work, candle wicking, or whatever.
It's an easy fix -- primer, neutral textured paint, and you're done.
There's some decent wood here. The chair rail, for instance, and the cabinet hiding the porn station. The calculator, remotes and phone charger should live there as well. I see a provocative glimpse of a big, beefy seat. I'm usually in favor of such things, but a club chair is just too big for this space. A slipper or boudoir-sized option would be much better.
You all know that I'm an unpaid international ambassador for skeet blankets and animal prints, but this mess is just too big in both size and scale. I recommend a Snuggie. In leopard, of course.
Love the frame, but I'm not a fan of the duct tape matte on the 'artwork.' I do wonder about the map itself. To where does it lead, the landfill? Anywhere would be fine as long as it takes me away from this godforsaken granny bedsit hellhole before I die.
David: Psychologically speaking, the owner of this home is a genuine head trip. Survey his bedroom and you immediately comprehend what's going on with his come-hither-but-get-the-fuck-away-from-me attitude. It's all one big YES/NO cluster fuck (you!)
Examples: The particle board bed, (sporting 200 thread count sheets from the local thrift store) seems to beckon, but then upon closer inspection looks as though the slightest ass-pressure would collapse it in a trice.
The red Ikea chair seems to be inviting, but, hmmmmm, never mind -- Angry Boy's kashmiri shawl -- that his mom got for a steal in Bombay -- is making you hesitant. Too! What's that smell? The aftereffects of mom's M by Mariah Carey is way too cloying. Ew! -- that synthetic baby powder scent.
The lone item in this room that dares engage us with any vitality is the little vine plant that is struggling valiantly to make its way out of the room -- and who can blame it? Run free little greeny, before you're stuffed into a terrarium and placed in a closet.
We do like the postcards and what look to be pencil drawings hung randomly on the wall -- this lends the room a bit of bohemian chic. Though if you're asked to come up and see his 'etchings' -- wisely decline. You'd be tossed to the curb as soon as the cum rag hit the floor.
Richard: The air is full of pollen, birds on every tree branch are fucking their little bird brains out, Kellyanne Conway is wearing white(ish), and Cadbury eggs are half-off at Walgreens. Ostara be praised, it's time for spring cleaning.
The good news is, this house is clean. (If you read that phrase and simultaneously heard it whispered in your ear by the ghost of Zelda Rubinstein, congratulations: you're a homo of the 1980s. If, on the other hand, you simply looked at the decor, and said, "Ugh, so 1980s", you're just a garden-variety homo. Nobody's perfect.)
The bad news is ... well, where to begin? That awkwardly laid, wrinkling carpet? The appallingly upholstered, overstuffed living room suite? The two tones of wallpaper, separated by a chair rail that dear, departed Zelda and her biggest wiglet could skip under without ducking? The wildlife "art" that a freelance accountant purloined from a temporary H&R Block outpost at the end of tax season? The poor transom that's been hemmed in by a drop-ceiling and usurped by a weird-ass air vent?
Or maybe we should get to the heart of the matter and deal with that sea of hunter green? That goddamn, 1982, Northpark Mall food court hunter green, that only looks right when it's lit by some neon pink lettering that reads, "ARCADE!".
I say stash the vacuum, slap on some Duck Heads and a couple of Swatches, and turn this shit into a booze-free night club for teens, who'll think it's fresh and retro. You can even charge extra if you get Adam Ant to play a midnight set. What, like he's got other plans?
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