Richard: Here at Lurid Digs, we’re not what you’d call “political”. I mean, we think PETA is fine, as long as it’s warm and served with a hearty side of baba ghanoush.

So this may seem a departure from our typically detached, snarky stance, but we simply cannot sit idly by while average Joes and G. I. Janes are forced to live in squalor due to the economic policies of the current administration.

We know it’s hard, people, but please, look at this image. This middle-class hero — we’ll call him Joe for consistency’s sake — labored day and night at Bear Stearns to fund his retirement in Boca Raton. But as you can see, thanks to the mortgage/housing collapse, the oil crisis, and a soaring US trade deficit — not to mention certain financial difficulties being endured by his former employer — Joe has been forced into a retirement home on the outskirts of Terre Haute.

Far worse, the floors above and below him are clearly occupied by black holes, which have not only been shown to cause cancer and artificial tanning in lab rats, but they also keep Joe’s sports accoutrements in a constant state of flux, being drawn toward event horizons looming just a few feet in either direction. Even our subject is beginning to feel the pull. Yet he valiantly struggles on, hoping for a better tomorrow.

If we don’t fix this problem now, the retirement of Dennis Hopper and his Boomer cohorts may be one of the biggest crises our nation has ever faced. Are we ready for that? Speak out, people! No to short-sighted tax incentives! No to black holes!
 

David: OK, so here’s the thing people — everything is working in this room. You’ve got a theme and a color palette that supports it. Great! Work it. The 24/7 homage to Chuck Jones? Why the fuck not? Hell it beats a room full of Chuck Norris dolls. All’s well here until the eye drifts over to the lower right hand corner of the photo and we notice — what? A giant porcelain rabbit and a mirrored disco ball. Oh no. Thematic symmetry shattered. The senses balk. The mind spins. Quick! Cue Britney’s new album — in its entirety — because you’re getting ready to … Blackout!
 

John: Heaven’s Portals are now open for business. That mural, first of all, then the holy water fount, then the banker’s lamp with the faux stained glass. And back to the mural again. This is what it means when the senses reel.

Gods, cupids, angels — and meaty buns … hard-as-granite meaty buns … please-be-seated meaty buns. I need to lie down now. Medic the room is spinning.

An angel with singed wings (brilliant touch) swoops down with … what, a hula hoop?… no, surely a crown (could that be, of thorns? oh, puleeze!) for our buzz-cut art-lover and damaged altar boy.

Storm clouds part, a …. god? goddess? mermaid? … lifts an elegiac arm, and all the heavens hail the momentous revelation of a perineum in thong, pulled open for full penetration.

Even the clothes, lying willy-nilly, suggest that a blinding manifestation has whirlwinded though the room, stopping only to smoke a Kools from the cigarette pack on the table. And by the way, what is that color scheme… papaya? The lime-skin shutters, the orange-pulp walls?

No matter. The message is clear: Damaged altar boy seeks same, liturgical-acting only.
 

John: We know what dungeon masters look like in their lair amid the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune. But what could they possibly be doing by daylight? This interior tells us all we need to know — with footnotes.

Does not the decor scream kinky CPA? That serious desk with double drawers for filing. The exposed wiring and clunky CRT monitor befitting someone too busy to keep up with the times. The whole utilitarian nature of the clutter. Very no-nonsense and very much what we want in a leather top. But note how meticulous this bear is. What really drives us wild is the tea towel to protect the chair. Not that this fastidious number would leave any sort of marks, with his trim beard and schoolmaster glasses. Among so many other things on bodacious display here, this photo give us proof positive that in CPA Land cleanliness is definitely next to godliness.

David: The clash of protruding and receding planes in this room would have caused M. C. Escher — the Dutch master of impossible architectural paradoxes — to swoon. The vertical rush of the window blinds colliding with the horizontal thrust of the drawers creates a startling impression: All of a sudden you feel like the porn on the monitor has popped out — fully embodied — into the real world. And is about ready to start jerking-off — right before your eyes. That’s some powerful feng shui.

I’m impressed with the dramatic and stagey way the desk is being used as a prop. And you just know that long drawer to the left contains all of his cock rings arranged in alphabetical order.

Curtis: I’m most intrigued by the egg timer sitting atop the trusty beige cathode ray tube, and secondarily by the calendar showcasing one of my favorite genres: Airbrush paintings of glistening crystal dolphins soaring through rings of fire in space. Or maybe it’s just a standard issue volcano scene. Either way, sign me up.

David: There are fifteen more rocker/recliners crammed into this room. Each one occupied by a full-bodied, naked and erect German guy. They are each swaying back and forth, in time to the “In Fernem Land” aria from Wagner’s Lohengrin.

As a ringleader, Dr. Laura is there, too, perched atop a giant waterbed, wearing nothing but a Victoria’s Secret, bright blue garter belt and clutching a black Kate Spade handbag — which contains the key to the vault of Kierkegaard’s tomb. In her other hand a metronome ticks like a time bomb.

What no one realizes is that the rocking motions of all sixteen chairs keep the globe tilted and spinning on its axis. Should the incessant back and forth motion stop, the world, as we know it, would cease to exist. So forgive them the vomitous blue paint job. And pay homage by shopping at Furniture World (and not Ethan Allen).

Richard: Like the rest of you, I would probably take issue with the red naugahyde chair, the bland blue recliner, the broken miniblinds, and the horrific wall treatment. Unfortunately, I can’t say any of those things because I promised dad I’d be supportive of his new career as an Internet pornstar.

Heather: Well, I guess he isn’t such a lazy boy after all, now is he.

Richard: “Yo, yo, yo, giving a shout-out to all my homies on the Terre Haute west side! I got it going on with the gangbang gangsta style over by my crib, so all you bitches and hos swing on by for some off-da-hook boot-knockin’ action, bay-bee. I be all about it-bout it, yo… Huh?… Aw, mom…. Yeah, alright, I’ll keep it down.”

David: Oh, my god. This is like a major Colonial invasion — to me the most unfathomable and deviant of interior design traditions. The McDonald’s shrine in the back corner is too John Wayne Gacey for me. I need to move to the next pic.

John: Credit where credit is due: The photographer is following the Rule of Thirds and the boy is set stylishly off to the left. Unfortunately, the photog didn’t get to the chapter yet about NOT blending heads into the blades of overhead fans. Still, I like the way the model dominates the picture with his quizzical direct gaze. The overspilling penis, succulent as it is, is no match for those white curtains with the blue stripes, though. Did somebody say “White Star Line”? And could Mom or somebody straighten that lampshade?

Heather: This may very well be one of the most disturbing photos I have ever seen. It’s akin to a modern-day Little Red Riding Hood, in which the wolf comes into Grandma’s house, skanky cap and all, and waves his wee little willy shouting “It’s all the better to grease you with!”

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?

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.

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.