The problem with satire, you see, is that the attack has to be blatantly ironic. It's a tricky form to master with often mixed results. Take New York's latest attempt, clearly identified as a piece of ridicule:

I hate it here with all my soul, [Tallulah] says. The rent on my loft, my 5,000-square-foot loft, is $1,180 a month. He rolls his eyes. I know. The landlord and my father were both admirals in the Navy. Whatever. But it s not enough to keep me somewhere I feel underappreciated creatively.
Three weeks after moving from Asheville, North Carolina, Tallulah hosted an exhibition of his own photography at his loft. He d spent much of the last year photographing all the different toilets he d used. No one fucking came, he recalls. Nada. And two nights before at Bungalow I went to sleepaway camp with Amy Sacco Jeffrey Deitch looked me in the eye and promised he d come. Dick.

We really don't see the sarcasm here. This stuff probably isn't real, but it might as well be.
"Will The Last Hipster Please Turn Out The Lights?" [NYM]