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Art Basel: 25 Reasons We're Glad It's Over

26. George Hamilton, who are you trying to fool?
26. George Hamilton, who are you trying to fool?
Associated Press

Look, there's no denying that Art Basel is the best thing to happen to Miami since cocaine. The money, the buzz, the makeover to the city's image, blah blah blah. We know. We love it, and we'll be excited for it all over again next year. But in the meantime, we're sending a bitter au revoir to those crazy artsos that descended on our town, put their feet on our couch, chugged all of our orange juice, dipped our cat in mayonnaise, and then tried to sell her for $58,000. It will sure be nice to have the place to ourselves again.

Here are the 25 things that annoyed us the most about the Art Basel crowd:

25. Red pants. No, they do not trick people into thinking that you're 35 again. Same goes for you, Grandpa Greenpants.

24. Similarly, dressing like you're schizophrenic does not make you appear more interesting. Just insufferable.

23. Fake European accents. Admit it: You're from Michigan.

22. Parking in South Beach was already hell. During Art Basel, it's hell and you're dorming with Hitler.

21. Anorexic women. Didn't that go out of style with a Lifetime special 15 years ago?

20. No, we don't want to pay $18 dollars for a double-shot that is actually a single shot, Art Basel bartender. And why are we buying drinks anyway--isn't this the VIP night? Oh, right...

19. Nobody's a VIP when everybody's a VIP. Which would be fine--utopian even--if 70 percent of the event-goers didn't still believe that they were VIPs, and act with according haughtiness.

18. You see how we're all forming this human snake to the bar? It's not some strange ritual. It's called a line. Social norms require that you stand at the back of it, not just walk up to the front and order a drink.

17. Maybe it boils down to that we just have something against rich people. But we swear we've never heard so much fake laughter in our lives.

16. The ironic use of moustache wax.

15. Elvis Costello eyeglasses, for the love of God.

14. "Mad Men" suits. That goes for everybody not named Jon Hamm.

13. Egregious overuse of the phrase "world class".

12. Title. Your. Fucking. Artwork.

11. This may shock you, but in the real world, $34,000 for anything-- besides a house--is not a bargain. That goes for that piece of art somebody wearing moustache wax threw together in six hours.

10. We never thought we'd say this, but: Fuck you, cubed cheese.

9. And fuck you too, Shiraz.

8. Pharell. Yes, we know he lives here, but at least he has the decency to make himself scarce during the rest of the year.

7. One day, Wynwood is the most happening place in the world and everybody is dropping bills at the Sanrio pop-up shop, eating street food and drinking cappucino. The next day, the moving trucks are here. The day after that, it's a ghetto again, and it takes cops 30 minutes to respond to a call there.

6. There's no nice way to say this: During Art Basel, female artsos dress even sluttier than women in Miami the rest of the year, which is quite a feat. Can anybody think of the daughters?

5. You don't see any children for a week, which we would usually think is nice, but after a while it gets a little unnerving. Do artsos eat their young?

4. We know it's all in good fun. But where we come from (the Midwest) grown men should not walk the streets wearing Hello Kitty crowns on their heads.

3. No, we do not envy you being shuttled around in the back of a official Art Basel BMW. Would you also die of malnutrition if Bernice Steinbaum didn't spoonfeed you mashed bananas? You look like Miss Daisy, and everybody knows Miss Daisy was a raging bitch.

2. Trophy wives of Art Basel (all 5,678 of you): Doesn't it sort of bother you that your 87-year-old beau Baron Ferdinand, with his little orange pants, is dropping six figures on paintings just like he dropped six figures on diamonds to get you? He wants a beautiful object of status on his walls, and one on his arm. Guess we don't really have a point here.

1. Artists writing shit in neon-- even in an ironic-I'm-writing-shit-in-neon kind of way-- needs to stop.


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