Richard: Some of us assumed that this lothario, like his naugahyde settee, is of foreign origin and therefore possesses different aesthetic sensibilities. Then someone suggested this might be a fantasy room at one of those low-end hotels in the Catskills—something with the theme of “Opposite Day, Where Everything Wrong is Right!”

Unfortunately, this gem is too truly, truly outrageous for either of those flimsy excuses. From the orange wall treatment (created with a feather-duster, which we know because we remember the 80s) to the over-abundant leopard print, to the unfortunate sartorial decisions (there’s more ladypants in the bathroom), it’s pretty clear: we have seen the truth of Timothy Leary’s Eternal Philosophy of Chaos and it’s rooms like this.

Thanks for crushing the last little bit of Pollyanna we had left.

John: Nothing gets the juices flowing like a leopard skin rug from Target. Our hero is telling us he is a primitive, an aboriginal, a wild thing of the jungle. Also that he is at home in the housewares section of any major mall.

The beer belly without the beercan dick is a bit of a deal breaker, but the nipple tweaking shows our happy camper is willing to go for the hard sell. I don’t understand the sloppy paint job on the wall borders but perhaps it’s another way of insisting that he is not made for the white man’s world — like in Tarzan’s New York Adventure where Johnny Weissmuller thinks the best way to get to Brooklyn is to dive off the Brooklyn Bridge.

Now is it just me, but whenever I see an A’s cap, I think “Asshole”. What next? An “L” cap?

David: Everything about this foyer telegraphs disaster: The greasy, high gloss Wedding Cake White paint job around the window (it’s called masking tape btw — check into it), the brick-a-brack shelf hinged above a baseboard heater (uhm … heat rises, Lillian Vernon shit melts, drips and will often ignite).

And that doorbell you can’t hear ringing? That’s the Jehovah’s Witnesses making their first call of the morning. It’s gonna be a fucked up day.

Richard: I can tell from that baseboard heatifying contraption that this shot was taken north of the Mason-Dixon, so I say this as both a Southerner and a faggot: y’all Yankees don’t know what to do with a goddamn house.

For example, any good ol’ boy worth his weight in pralines — which, by the way, is pronounced praw-LEANS, you sons of bitches — knows how to deal with hardwood floors. We know they require monthly — if not weekly — cleanings with Murphy’s Oil Soap.

We know that clean or dirty, they’re very dangerous to run around on when you’re wearing tube socks. And most of all, we know that a rug on hardwood without padding is a herniated disk waiting to happen.

learly, this poor Svengali broke both of the latter rules whilst engaged in a wild sex romp with Carlito, the superintendent’s hot young nephew, recently arrived from San Juan. Luckily, the guy’s fall was broken by an antique rug that his family had made from the now-extinct Southern pine leopard during their carpetbagging years in Atlanta immediately following the War of Northern Aggression.