Holy flaming shitburgers, Batman, but I believe we have reached a new pinnacle in bad taste. Stopped in my tracks like a newborn duiker in the blitzkrieg hunting spots of a Land Cruiser, I was bedazzled into next month. From the dazzlingly sterile plains of the stainless steel door panels to the unfinished symphony of the triumphant doorside pillars with their aerial roots hinting at further shininess yet to come, all was full of bling. Cosmonauts on the International Space Station have reported that when the planet is at just the right angle they can switch their bedside lights off and read by the reflection off this cacophony of bling. But wait – there’s more! Note the broekie-lace gazebo. Marvel at the sheer breathtaking audacity of faux-colonial style forced to make sweet love to this paean to the gods of sheet metal in an unholy union that would leave lovers of bestiality slackjawed and speechless.

Put my eyes out with a hive of angry Madagascan tiger hornets, for mine eyes have seen the glory of steel.

This also published on Mahala.