Less Than Gyllenhaal: "What I Wore" or "I got 99(%) Problems..."

Anyone who reads the New York Times (or more specifically, anyone who reads the New York Times and is also female or homosexual) is probably familiar with the ongoing Fashion column: “What I Wore.” Now, for those of you who don’t know what this is, I’ll fill you in.

Basically the Times profiles obnoxious “society” people and has them document exactly what they wore for an entire week, presumably to give you some incentive to blow out your brains in the middle of a Commes de Garcon showroom.

Below I’ve decided to sample a portion of this past week’s “What I Wore” so you can also experience the overwhelming urge to tear your eyes out. This week’s column chronicles some biddy named, wait for it... Muffie (I know, I can’t make this stuff up):

“An early lunch meeting to discuss a branding project. My closet is color-coded so everything is easy to find. I put on a crisp white Carolina Herrera blouse, and over that, a cream leather Valentino jacket. The off-white wide-leg trousers were also Valentino, and they went with Giuseppe Zanotti camel-colored ostrich high heels and my saddle leather Birkin. I have everything in my Birkins. They hold my world together.”

Ok Muffie, let’s talk. I only have one thing to say and it goes a little something like this:

I hate your fucking guts. It’s true Muffie, I do. I know we just met, but I hate everything about you. I hate your stupid life and your stupid “job” (charity coordinator/socialite?) Hell, I even hate your stupid old money name. Muffie. What the hell is a Muffie? What is that even short for? Nothing, is the answer, it’s a “fun loving” name old rich white folks made up to pretend that they love their children. Also, Muffie, I don’t care much money you have, I can spot a Bump-It when I see one, and you lady, are definitely wearing a bump-it. If you don’t believe me, ladies and gentlemen, here’s a picture of Muffie going all GTL on our asses:

And let’s just be clear here, Muffie, if that is your real name. What is so difficult in your life that you need your precious Birkin (oh, Birkins, plural. Sorry.) to “hold your world together?” Are you working to solve the racial divide in sub-Saharan Africa? Are you a single mother juggling 3 part time jobs so you can still be eligible for the Welfare checks that feed your children? No? No, you are not. You are planning parties and attending luncheons with the distributors of Toms and Ethos Water. You are picking out linens for the ‘Rita Hayworth gala’ (yea, I read through your article and I’mma throw that back atchu, girl.) So if your over-privileged life is truly as exhausting as you claim it to be, then do what the rest of the 1% does: employ an illegal, have them manage your shit, and underpay the hell out of them. That’s America, Muffie. Birkin is French, you damn commie.

And now to take it down a notch.

Because before we continue, I want to be clear about one thing. This is not just about Muffie. I do not know Muffie. Muffie may be a nice lady. In fact, I might say the chances are quite high that Muffie is a very nice lady, considering she uses a large majority of her time and money to organize charity events when she doesn't need to (as opposed to me, who would blow my entire fortune on hookers, methamphetamines, and commissioning artists to paint Soviet-era portraits of my likeness.) I’ve always cursed out our country’s double standard towards wealth; that we should respect the poor and admonish the rich. You would never fault someone for being born in poverty so it’s rude to hate on the over-privileged if they are kind and loving people.

But you can certainly be jealous of them. And that’s my problem. Because I want money. I want a lot of money. Tons of money. Hoards of money. I want “rub money all over my naked body and cure the paper cuts with a rare and exotic type of rainforest aloe” type of money. But I just don’t have any. I’m the 99%, and I’m so over it. I don’t hate Muffie. I just want to be her. I’d kill her, wear a mask made of her skin, and live her Gucci Prada Hermes life if I could, but unfortunately I’m no longer a size 6 and would rather die than release the seams on her Michael Kors trousers.

So because of this, I’ve decided to create my own version of “What I Wore” for all the non-Muffies out there. The real, true blue, 99% version of the column to reflect today’s declining economy. Here goes nothing:

Monday: