Take A Tour Of Tommy Hilfiger's Ridiculous Miami Mansion

None

Dee and Tommy keep telling me the stools are really famous or something, but I keep thinking that this is probably what Virgil Abloh's kitchen looks like too.

Tommy takes me into his office. He tells me to touch the walls. "Faux suede," he says with a smug sense of satisfaction. I don't even hide my disdain. THE ONLY THING WORSE THAN FAUX SUEDE IS HAVING YOUR OWN BOOK ON YOUR OWN DESK IN YOUR OWN OFFICE IN YOUR OWN HOME. Of course, I don't say any of that stuff out loud because that would be rude and I'm still a guest in someone else's home. My mom raised me right. Although, even she would think this room is a bit garish.

Next up, the closet. I can't help but think that this looks exactly like the struggle section at the local Nordstrom Rack, but I keep actively trying to check myself. I need to have more respect. Tommy made those Tommy overalls and one time in high school I knew a girl who wore Tommy overalls and she looked absolutely banging in those things, so I bite my tongue and sip on the Prosecco Dee so kindly offers me as we meander.

Now this is what I was waiting for! This is totally the type of master bedroom you bump moguls off of models' boobs in and feed your enemies to sharks and where you realize your entire empire is imploding around you. Instead, it's just two old rich people who make me take my shoes off so as not to leave tracks on the rug. Tommy makes a weird double entendre about the mirrored ceiling and I excuse myself so I can go throw up real quick.

WHAT THE FUCK. THE WALLPAPER IN THE BATHROOM IS SCENTED. Whatever happened to lighting a match or just acknowledging that a big part of this human existence is smelling really badly? I start to rummage through the medicine cabinet because I know that old rich white people always have dope prescription drugs, but then Dee politely knocks on the door to see if I'm okay and I get nervous so I just blurt out, "I"m pooping! Be right with you!" Whenever you actually tell someone you're pooping they generally give you however long you need. I pop some Xanax and get on with the tour.

This whole house just looks like a fucking hotel. I can't even tell what room this is until Tommy's like, "This is where I do all my best 'designing'," and I realize that Tommy just became the first millionaire celebrity that admits to actually taking huge dumps. I feel bad for stealing one of his Xanie bars now, but the actual Xanax keeps me from feeling too much remorse. Thank god.

The Hilfigers notice that I'm a little worn out and ask me if I want to spend the night. Before I can say, "Or nah," Dee is showing me to my guest room. And no way can I fall asleep in something like this. Not even if I stole all the Xanax in the world. I can't think of a strong enough excuse to bail, so I just bring up the fact that Tommy didn't want rappers wearing his clothing and BOOM someone from the Hilfiger's staff shows me out. Turns out the rumors were true, I guess. Dee, the consummate hostess, freshens up my Prosecco on the way out while mouthing, "Sorry. That's a sore spot for Tommy."