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Strippers at the Guggenheim

Jacq

To reward ourselves for having made two arduous trips to our storage unit, Yesterday Danielle and I zipped uptown to go and see some ~modern~ art.

The Guggenheim the dopest piece of architecture on the Upper East Side, flanked with impossibly expensive apartments filled with people I probably resent. Needless to say, I don’t venture to this part of Manhattan often.

Since everything I see I relate to the delightfully derelict world of glitter and dry-humping, I thought I’d show you all the dope-ass cunts who like money I found in the spiraling white tower of The Guggenheim:

This is the girl hand-washing her g-string in the bathroom. We are all this girl. 

This is the girl who came in when they said, “COME IN IT’S BUSY WE NEED GIRLS.”

These are the girls watching from backstage as the new bitch with the fresh tits auditions.

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This is the man who, despite looking homeless, is actually a billionaire. He is always at the club and never spends any money, but makes an annoying valiant effort to have free esoteric conversations with the strippers. He succeeds only with the rookies, which has become a sort of initiation for new hires. 

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This bachelor party just got off the party bus and they're ready to rage, but they won't be let in to the club unless Jason stops trying to fight everyone. 

 

These are a bunch of dudes taking up space with their privilege, trying to convince us that we should feel lucky to bask in the white-washed glory of their presence.

This is Agnes Martin's work, who, *in theory* I admire. She was all about doing whatever the fuck she wanted, which, I feel in practice, is really boring art that just takes up space. So, Agnes, you go girl, taking up all that space with your ladyness in the 50s. But IRL it's boring as hell and makes me feel like the Upper East Side is playing yet another practical joke on me and my $25 admission price tag. 

This is Agnes Martin's work, who, *in theory* I admire. She was all about doing whatever the fuck she wanted, which, I feel in practice, is really boring art that just takes up space. So, Agnes, you go girl, taking up all that space with your ladyness in the 50s. But IRL it's boring as hell and makes me feel like the Upper East Side is playing yet another practical joke on me and my $25 admission price tag. 

 

This is the busboy cleaning up the stage after the free-bleeder finishes her set.

I did not take a dump in the gold toilet because the only kind of shit tourism I do is travel to Thailand for coffee enemas. 

Plus the line was really long. 

I liked them apples. 

Then we went to drink a $6 hot chocolate. It was DELICIOUS.