John: The decor speaks to us of finer things and Quiet Good Taste and the Merv Griffin Suite at the Bellagio. The model is untouched by all this tamping down of artistic expression and is pretty fantastic on his own, being the only thing in this done room of unimpeachable beauty. My Prediction: This genre of people photographing themselves in the mirror, with the digital camera in the picture, will be collected someday as an artifact of sappier antique times.

Heather: I can’t even look at this picture for more than a couple of seconds without realizing that there is clearly more than one reason I have never moved into one of those cookie cutter apartment complexes. I give thanks that I have been spared such a fate.

Richard: If I squint really hard — and I’m trying to — this photo melts into an inoffensive beige blob. When I focus, it’s worse. The ting-ting in the Pier One vase, the Wal-Mart sofa table, and the white-enamel furniture are bad enough, but why-oh-why did the owner have to go the extra step and place that A&F mannequin in the middle of the goddamn living room?

David: This redefines the word “artifice.” And frighteningly, the interior matches exactly the exterior — (of the model). The only pittance of realness is the poor little kitchen plant struggling to radiate its green hues into the blanched and barren beige of the domain. I bet this guy’s mom was a wannabe executive with nouveau riche taste who struggled hard just to keep the Town And Country subscription renewed each year. File this under “Sins of the Mother.”

David: Ethnic chic! The upside down Chinese hat on the ceiling makes this interior a shoo-in at the next Christopher Lowell Home Beautification Awards ceremony.

Richard: Unfortunately, I can’t see quite enough of the interior to be insulted by it. Not that I’m complaining about my dog’s-eye-view of a fat cocksickle, mind you…

John: As in an Avedon fashion photo, the graphic design of this T-bone shape, this beautiful moment caught forever, is so high-impact that we lose sight of what we’re really interested in. That would be the ceiling, of course. Are those acoustic tiles? How loud do you boys get in this rec-room-cum-dungeon?

John: Well, it is the happiest time of the year. The entire house is in drag and there are twinkle lights outlining mirrors and doorways. We do not see this. We do not have to. The design flair of whoever put the family computer in the living room implies that this is a house where the parents are so busy putting up decorations, what with Halloween, 4th of July and Easter, they have no time to notice that Junior is having his way with himself in front of a webcam. And an internet fanbase of millions.

David: This is a macabre interior, almost Satanic. The juxtaposition of peeking penis and voodoo doll-like mantel Santa is spooky. The black candles on a makeshift shrine seem to be celebrating the torture and hanging of Garfield the Cat.

Richard: Criminy, mum! You got me everything I wanted for Christmas: a Malibu Barbie in Santa drag and my very own penis! Now I can forget that we live in this stuffy little Manchester hovel and start enjoying life for a change!

David: There are two alternate realities colliding here. To the left we have the model’s “old” world. The apex being the teddy bear shrine (representing infancy), bookended by various colognes (the adolescent teenage years). And I bet there’s one of those wooden “keys and loose change” catching devices up there, too — indicating adulthood. All of this is punctuated by what seems to be an antique etching of a downtown cityscape, I like that.

On the right is modern world accoutrements, complete with that New Agey Wyland whales in the ocean print (puke!). I also can’t deal with the dresser, nor the carelessness indicated by the shabby computer chair. I’ve also never understood men who wear jewelry — nor would I date them. Though I do love big beefy thighs like this, because usually the ass that accompanies them is very thick, globular and meaty, supplying a wide, solid expanse for gripping while performing fellatio. I’ll stop now.

Heather: This is straight out of an early Russ Meyer film, I swear to god. The headless erection comes to attack whoever the poor soul is that lives in this sad little dump. It really has to hurt standing that close to the light fixture.

Richard: Hey, what’s going on here? That bureau doesn’t even come up to this guy’s balls. The perspective’s all wrong. Maybe this one of those Ripley’s-Believe-It-or-Not rooms where the things up front look really big and those at the back look tiny. Or maybe Goliath is just so tall his image can’t be captured in one frame.

John: The dick, we are happy to note, is pointed toward Mecca. The powerful body set powerfully in the forefront, dwarfing the touching little bedroom, is everyone’s fantasy of fucking the Colossus of Rhodes — if everyone were gay, of course.

Richard: Dear Mommy: I hope you are having fun with Aunt Doris. Daddy and I are great. Yesterday we went to the park, and the day before that, he took me to a party with some of his friends. We all went swimming in the hot tub, and then we played Twister. It was nice. Daddy wanted me to show you that I am wearing clean underwear every day. You can see it in the picture! Daddy’s friend Steve came over and did the laundry and then took pictures of me. I wanted to send another one, but he said you might not understand it so I didn’t. Come home soon. Daddy is good, but all I get to eat is coffee and cigarette butts. I miss you. Love, Billy

David: Squeaky Fromme once lived here.

John: That plastic chair must be fun in July when the temperature goes triple digits. Then there’s the matter of the hanging planter and the fabric roses. Make up your mind! Only one atrocity per square yard. Is it my imagination or are the ashtray and coffee cup levitating over the rug? Yet he looks so life-like. These space alien pod-people are getting so good now.

David: God, those DeMille curtains again. If this is what goes down in their bathroom, imagine the rest of the house. These are the sorta folks who have those gigantic, 3-foot-long, teak fork and knife “art” pieces hanging on their kitchen wall. And their couch, in the living room, is actually the 20-square-feet equivalent of a baby’s play pen — (upholstered in navy blue velour). Lemme outa here.

Richard: Okay, so two problems: (a) Mary’s thong, (b) Mary’s inability to coordinate his pastel undergarments and hand towels into his very bold, patriotic bathroom color scheme. She is so fired.

John: I blame Broadway. I blame showtunes. And given the patriotic theme, I blame ice shows. Ladies and Gentlemen, presenting my ass! Start the balloon drop.

We knew drama queens were always creating tedious little “scenes” for themselves; we just didn’t know they were tedious little set designers as well. I’m sure the raised toilet seat means something. Never show a gun in Act One that you’re not going to use by Act Three.

Richard: This bear is obviously a neophyte collector of stuffed humans. Had he any experience in the field, he’d know that this Dakin-model “Ron the Raverboy Wannabe” flooded the market in 1995, diminishing the value of every other Dakin favorite, including “Phyllis the Fire-Eating Dyke” and “Ernie and his Espresso Enema.” Perhaps this bear should spend a little less time smoking in bed (note the prominent cigarette burn in the comforter) and a little more time watching Antiques Roadshow.

Heather: Am I blue? Dear god, it’s death by monochrome. I do, however, have to give kudos to the art-by-proxy that occurs here, since the shading between the pillows and duvet and those of the tan lines on his chest and pelvis seem to be perfectly harmonious.

David: Nabokov actually had a name for the male equivalent of a Lolita, and to this day I still can’t find it when I scour the book. Confirming, once again, that it pays to use a highlighter when reading the classics. What I love most here is the tangle of wires, all heaped on the floor. It signals to the subconscious that both the bear and the boy have escaped entrapment and are free to roam and model at will. It’s nothing but blue skies ahead for this duo as the comforter so reassuringly assures.

John: Nabokov called them faunlets, David, fyi.

You just know that out of frame his right foot is wiggling one of those slippers with teddy-bear heads on them. The allusions to childhood, the white purity of the bear, the yielding vulnerability of the neck — it’s enough to make a pedophile weep. The hard dick ain’t bad either.

David: This personal space is the “poster child” of bad American interior design across the globe. In one fell swoop it brilliantly unites several conflicting “styles”: Colonial (the headboard), Haight Ashburian (the Escher-like poster), Laura Ashley-esque (the pillows and hat “hangings”), post modern Captain Kangaroo (the stuffed rabbit), Parade magazine memorabilia/effluvia (the wall plate) and finally — the most obvious — Queerola Homeboya 2000 (the Calvins-clad model). I’m impressed (and dizzy). Now, torch it!

Richard: How many times do we have to go through this people? Even low-rent porn stars make their beds — every morning! And if they’re smart, they’ll also hide anything that might give away their hat fetishes.

John: There is something very Rentboy in Tijuana about this picture. It’s the colors, the tobasco reds and tortilla yellows. It’s the sombrero-ish hat on the wall with its wide straw brim. It is, ultimately, the boy himself. Why do we know he’s jockey petite, jockey precious? There is something touching and absurd about the arm flexing. Macho in minature. Like those baby chichuachuas in vintage ads, we can hold this Hercules in the palm of our hand.

Heather: This is real marketing brilliance. Just when you thought Aunt Fran couldn’t find a thing she liked in pornography, you give her that flea market-flava, Minnie Pearl hat and all. Now, who could resist such a nice boy?

John: Like, could these cats be more uninterested? Is dust circling in the air really that mind-blowing? This photo reminds me of that Pre-Raphaelite painting of Ophelia drowning in a stream, where there are so many things in the picture and all of them are in such perfect focus that it’s hard to pick out which one is actually Ophelia. Oh, I get it, the one with the hardon.

David: That fucking rug fascinates me. It’s very Tarzan meets Target. And the little cat hammock beneath the window is fabulous — so thoughtful. I’m starting to get it that cats figure prominently within the decor theme. Typical of a feline, they consider the human to be a nuisance to be tolerated within their domain. And how could they feel different, given giant litterbox effect of that carpet. Oy! I’ll take a swig from that tall Bud now, please.

Richard: The cover shot looks fine, Daryl. Just be sure to add this copy to the inside of the piece: The Mayor and his Wife Request the Honor of Your Presence at the Annual Gala Benefit for the ASPSA (American Society for the Prevention of Spoojing on Animals). Don’t forget: I need 5000 of these on 80# white by next Wednesday.