Earlier this week I went on a minor tirade about Magnises, the fake credit card for entitled New York City brats that offers “exclusive perks” that seem pretty lame. Magnises The card — which costs $250 a year for membership and simply links to your real credit cards – attempts to appeal to millennials who are interested in social-climbing and status symbols that daddy’s AMEX can’t buy. An advisor to the hot start-up was even quoted spouting this line of plutocratic douche-dom in the New York Post:
“[We like] smart people from great schools, so they have the family background and education,” explains Emir Bahadir, a real estate exec and an adviser to Magnises.
Ah, yes: To live a life of nepotism and privilege.
Anyway, I was thrilled when an e-mail from a reader about the Magnises Townhouse in the West Village landed in my inbox. The reader, who shares my sentiment about the faux-credit card, has been busting the balls of his friend, a Magnises member, for how stupid the whole thing is. He told the story of the time he visited the Magnises Townhouse with his friend and took a giant shit there.
Cool perk. Finding a good, clean bathroom in the West Village to take a giant deuce isn’t easy these days. Here is our reader’s tale:
As mentioned earlier, Magnises is a paid membership service meant to con members into thinking they have joined some elite club. Without rehashing the pitfalls we mentioned before I was lucky enough to spend a strange Saturday afternoon in the Magnises “townhouse” a few months ago…
My friend is a Magnises member. He is constantly trying to justify himself to me since I mercilessly taunt him about it on a pretty regular basis. One day while walking together through the West Village he suddenly realizes that we are in front of the “townhouse” and insists that we go in…
We ring the doorbell to the home and are buzzed in. We ascend the clubhouse stairs and find a kid sitting alone at a dining room table on his computer in dead silence. The house itself is pretty ridiculous. Prime location in West Village. Two floors. Massive kitchen. I’m almost convinced we are about to be arrested for breaking and entering when the bro sitting at the table looks up from him laptop and welcomes us. He goes into the other room and suddenly some Avicii-esq song starts blaring through the speakers in the ceiling. It’s a Saturday afternoon. Why he feels that’s the appropriate mood to set is beyond me.
While the physical house is very nice, the decor looks as if some bro just saw the movie Wall Street and tried to recreate Bud Fox’s apartment with today’s trends. It’s over the top and cluttered with shit. Most of the art on the walls have price tags dangling from them. Either a sad attempt to sell some hideous “art” or a vein gesture to show that the eye sores around you are worth an obscene amount of money. Overall there is something off about the place. I feel like it was designed to lure coked out strippers in to harvest they organs. I’m convinced their is a sex dungeon in the basement.
There is nobody else there and it gets kinda awkward. We go upstairs to see the rest of the place which is sweltering hot. We make our way into what must be the master bedroom and sit on a large couch where the bed is supposed to be. I’m surprised to find that American Psycho is not playing on every TV in the house. For some reason the whole place has iPhone charger wires coming out of every crevasse. Interesting.
My friend shoots me a look and can tell he will never live this down. We sit around for a few more minutes with the music blaring downstairs. I give my friend a look of “lets get the fuck out of here”. Before we leave, I decided to leave my mark and take a huge shit in the bathroom. I contemplate leaving an upper decker but decide the complexity of the deed would not be worth my time. I leave the house pretty confused.