Soon, the folksy, three-room barn named after a Shinnecock Indian (shiny cock, shiny cock, shiny cock. There, it’s out of my system) is swarming with hundreds – I’m not joking people, hundreds of the skankiest bitches you’ve ever seen in one spot, air-kissing the dullest frat boy team ever put together. It seems odd. Where do these people come from? Do they really enjoy New Orleans Soul? No. They don’t give a shit. They enjoy spilling $12 PBR all over each other and licking the salt off plastic cups is what they enjoy. Along with screaming inanities at the top of their lungs. Okay. I’ve known your kind before. Well, if you don’t get out of my way right now I will pour my bland Chardonnay down your caked-on hour-and-a-half make-up job, consider yourself warned.
But soon something else catches your eye. Wow, those shoes are nice… a very perfect hue of whispery nude patent-leather pumps with just the right arch and a very lovely heel, a perfect blend of stiletti ‘come-hitherness’ with a touch of that All-Girl School take on demure… Aren’t those Louboutins? It’s unlikely since they’re on the bottom of a sunburned, semi-female-looking hippo strapped into a two-tone tube dress with a fluorescent-pink French manicure but… that is a Chanel clutch bouncing off her hip, and six rows of Mauboussin pearl and diamond sautoirs around her neck.
Something’s wrong with this picture. But soon you see it everywhere: Rolex watches with a three-set of Cartier love bracelets on the same wrist, Fendi clutches, Lanvin wallets and Balenciaga belts, diamonds the size of gumballs holding on to every chubby little finger…This is not possible. But it is the awful truth. The average reveler in this lamentable skank-pool wears an average of four-to-ten grand in high-street accessories. And yet they manage to look like they’ve been thrown out of the last of Long Island’s Hooters.