BRANT WATCH

It was a day of sticky wickets and crumbled bumpkins for Patriarch Peter I, moonlighting as a Masticating Cavalier Soldier on the South African polo team, White Birch Farm. Patriarch Peter I wore knee-high wollywog boots to protect his feet against the fearsome conditions of a playing field that was positively gramfusculated, noting that he “hadn’t seen grass this hognammered” since the infamous “East Pelham flash fog fiasco of ’88.” Patriarch Peter I’s horse, Whistling Larry, was kneecapped by an especially immoral member of the opposing South Korean team; the referee, apparently blind as a fucking bat, failed to call the appropriate flogwang. Horseless, Patriarch Peter I fought boldly on, dodging flailing hoofs and flying clods to score a last minute +8 hoover with a heroic left-handed onanistic maneuver. Following their victory, White Birch Farm drank chilled grain alcohol beneath the canopy of Harvard Spruces that dot the local countryside, joining together in their boisterous and familiar chant recently popularized by the rap trio Die Antwoord: “Ek het daai ou befok! Ek het daai ou befok! Cheekyprawn cheekyprawn cheekyprawn, fok, fok, fok!” As is their custom, the South African polo club ended their revelry with the all-nude competition game Dop Dop, in which the loser is forced to drink a dram of winkleberry gin that has been poured onto the scrotum of the team captain. A sour-faced Patriarch Peter I, hastily brushing his teeth in the bushes, gave some indication as to the game’s outcome.

Peter Brant II and Harry listen raptly to RuPaul and Bobby Jindal, the dual keynote speakers at last night’s fundraiser for the bipartisan Super PAC, Okay Fine You Gays Can Get Married If We Can Keep Our Guns, co-sponsored by Barney Frank and Ted Nugent.  Harry wears a Prada bowtie-and-bib made from preserved tulips and honeysuckle stamens, with eye shadow that derives its color from crushed bricks and lavender poppins; Peter II’s hair glistens with a new veruca-infused pomade from Belgium, and he is photographed enjoying a rocket-and-walnut salad with a liquid guacamole chaser. “These are the kind of political events I enjoy,” Peter II said. “All different sorts of people—black, yellow, gay, straight, skinny, gross and fat—but everyone just hanging out, dressed nicely, not talking too loud.” Patriarch Peter I brought the house down with his bawdy, cross-dressing participation in a skit, co-written by Judd Apatow and Tucker Carlson, which riffed on the concept of a “shotgun gay marriage.” (Several guests were later overheard quoting his show-stopping catchphrase, “With a barrel like that, it sure is death ‘til we part!”) L.L. Cool J and Brad Paisley closed the evening with a performance of their recent blockbuster, “Accidental Racist.”

Harry Brant, at the annual Costume Ball to benefit PETA’s International Euthanasia programs, got his evening off to a bumpy start when he was hit by a yellow Ferrari driven by boutique ice cream impresario Ted Van Leeuward. “I always dreamed I’d be taken out by a vintage Aston Martin or something,” Harry said later, “maybe a baby blue one, circa 1964. It’d be tragic but romantic, like a Smiths song.” Van Leeuward was fairly unrepentant re: his role in the accident: “I mistook him for a ferret or, perhaps, a muskrat,” he said, handing 10% promotional discount coupons to the investigating officers from the NYPD. Luckily, Harry’s outfit was spared any scuffs, scratches, or tears—his skintight black walrus-skin trousers with integrated memory foam codpiece cost “more than a Chinese adoption,” he said. Inside, a crowd of luminaries praised PETA’s astoundingly high shelter kill rate while attendees supped on seitan-encrusted knucklewuggles, faux-bison ravioli cannoli, and melted tofu-and-kale flambé bricks. Harry’s near-death-by-Ferrari anecdote grew ever more tumescent with each retelling. Peter II chimed in with a rough estimate of how many people would attend his own hypothetical funeral (between 2,000 and 3,500). Ice cream impresario Van Leeuward was forcibly ejected from the property after asking the Saudi assault weapon heir Alza Hariri if she would care to “lick his cone.”

“Nothing beside remains round the decay of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare,” Peter II whispered into the ear of bukkake film heiress Petra Squint. “The lone and level sands stretch far away. Goddamnit, your hair smells like pineapples and hash and rubber cement, I want to just eat it!” The pair is photographed at the Puck Building for the launch of the new CrotchScan 2.0 iPhone app, billed as a “Shazam-style visual recognition software to identify and confirm basic symptoms of STIs” that will “revolutionize the way we fuck strangers,” according to patent holder John T. Kurzwald. Xiu Xiu performed an experimental, 39-minute version of Joy Division’s “Love Will Tear Us Apart” at the event. CrotchScan 2.0 is partially bankrolled by Patriarch Peter I, who hopes to integrate the technology with Grindr, OKCupid, and the popular nightlife listing modules owned by BlackBook magazine. Technicians on-site helped partygoers download the app and offered private, 1:1 tutorials on its efficient usage for partner- and self-diagnosis. Peter II was seen leaving the educational booth, visibly pale and dappled in a sheen of sweat. “It didn’t work,” he hiccuped. “It absolutely does not fucking work, I don’t care what they say.” Harry could not attend the launch party due to a previous obligation to act as a celebriguest at the quinceañera of Telemundo child star Juanita Cullobeso.   

An archival shot from the prelapsarian days of youth, before the much-publicized Brant scandals: Harry’s insistence on experimental self-infection with cosmetic vitiligo, Peter II’s involvement in the poisonous snake “prank” that resulted in the inadvertent decimation of the Great Tit population in Greenwich, CT. The boys are pictured at the first public opening of the Brant Foundation’s art exhibition space, seated with their riding instructor and conversational French tutor Yvette Baiser; it was at this inaugural event that Urs Fischer debuted his permanent lawn sculpture Dipping Sauce Not Included, a clay mold of his left testicle enlarged by a factor of 1,000,000 and cast in bronze. “It’s weird sometimes just moving through the world,” whispered Harry, 10. “I feel the wind tickle my hair, I feel voices telling me You are special, you are blessed, everyone is watching you. This is normal, from what my brother tells me.” Chloe Sevigny’s short-lived electropop band Mangina performed at the event. Peter II told several people an anecdote about how he’d gotten out of a final term paper in 11th grade English by accusing his teacher of molesting him. Patriarch Peter I successfully predicted the economic collapse of 2008, and guests ate a bust of famous Argentinean polo player Nacho Figueras made entirely of truffle-dusted white chocolate. 

“You call that a goddamn Turbinado?” bellows an irate Patriarch Peter I, captured berating a cabana waitress on the beach in St Barts. “Did you perhaps substitute ass juice for the requisite Angostura bitters?” Patriarch Peter I’s equally peeved companion, Victoria’s Secret fit model Fernanda Pokum, punctuated her lover’s tirade by rhythmically jabbing her finger in the unfortunate young woman’s right eyeball. This incident capped off a tumultuous and accident-plagued week, a vacation from hell that included a chin dislocated during a vigorous face yoga session; back-hair-electrolysis disasters; and an emergency room visit catalyzed by black market Chinese Viagra. Reached later for comment, Patriarch Peter I issued a statement apologizing for the “so-called assault,” but stressing the importance of maintaining top-notch cocktail standards lest St Barts be replaced by another island dedicated to “the crème de la crème de la crème de la crème.” The waitress, whose name is not important, was treated for a detached retina; the Brants recompensed her troubles with a sheaf of gift cards to Factory Bongo Party, the grossly unpopular Warhol-themed tiki bar franchise that Patriarch Peter I launched in the Carribean last year.

Harry vamps at the 2013 Satyricon Swinger’s Ball, held in Soho House’s eleventh floor private pool room. The annual event—was which unfortunately quashed last year due to an unprecedented staph infection outbreak—is a fundraiser for Sasha Grey’s New Horizons, a 501(c) organization dedicated to getting young women out of hardcore porn and into Steven Soderbergh films. Harry wears a copper-plated half-girdle by Givenchy and synthetic eyelash extensions personally gifted by Liza Minelli. Photobombing Harry’s shot over his right shoulder is the infamous grifter Zack Comedone, notorious for posing as exiled French royalty before bilking old, slightly sad gay men for their credit card collections. “The scene here is rather timid, I must say,” mewled Harry. “Back in 2011 I saw a midget getting a Cristal enema while a tumescent James Franco helped Marina Abramovic enact an X-rated version of Rhythm 0. This year the craziest shit I’ve seen is Mickey Boardman being aggressively tickled by a fleet of Belgian lumberjack impersonators.” Peter II spent most of the evening laughing nervously and biting his recently manicured fingernails into ragged nubs. Patriarch Peter I, normally “the unholy center of attention” at this bacchanal, according to sources, was unable to attend due to an overzealous IRS audit.

It was a chaotic evening at the compound when prodigal half-daughter Lala Brant arrived unannounced during an intimate vegan dinner in honor of Dutch gallerist Piet von der Kronk. Lala, wearing a romper from Daniel Buren X Opening Ceremony, has been estranged from Patriarch Peter I for nearly a decade, following a quasi-violent altercation on St Barts re: the correct pronunciation of frisée.  “I got as much right to be here as any of these other pricks,” Lala slurred, having inexplicably picked up a pronounced Cockney accent during her sojourn away from the familial bosom. “Plus somebody here owes me a car. Everyone else got a car, I want my fucking car, and it better be expensive and fast, and red.” Harry unsuccessfully attempted to subdue Lala by throwing various shiny objects onto the lawn in the hopes that she would spend a few hours chasing them, a tactic that, he says, “has been super useful in the past.” Von der Kronk appeared visibly distraught at this inelegant disruption of his cruelty-free meal. Thankfully, patience prevailed: Lala lapsed into unconsciousness on a Jean Prouve daybed whose pristine surface was sullied by “only a little bit of vomit,” according to sources.

Peter II, whose serotonin levels have soared in the three weeks he has been taking 50mg/daily of the experimental SSRI HappyHead (TM), demonstrates a classic 1980s voguing pose known as the ‘prancing sunflower motherfucker.’ He wears leather sarong rollerblading wristguards by Rodarte and a scarf sewn from the ear tufts of pygmy kangaroos. “We’re here celebrating sequestration,” he said, posing with Harry in front of the new molecular gastronomy hot spot, Bunsen, where Grover Norquist and the grassroots group Quit Diddlin’ My Wealth were hosting a $6,000 a plate fundraiser. “It’s like John Boner said: There’s gonna be pain, but it’s necessary pain. Obama got his tax break already. I earned my money fair and square: By inheriting it from my father, who made it by the sweat of his own brow after his father gave him a whole bunch of paper factories. This is America. People like Patriarch Peter I deserve what they’ve earned, because they’re smart. I mean, my dad basically saved print media by initiating the now standard 22:1 unpaid intern-to-staff ratio. He’s also sick at polo.” (Stock in Brant-related holdings in the international markets momentarily plummeted after an overeager pap standing nearby tweeted that the elder Brant was ‘sick with polio.’) Norquist, who Harry described as “a cuddly teddy bear, but with fucking fangs,” later came out to share a cigarette with the Brants; he was drinking a 120-ounce Coca-Cola in protest of Mayor Bloomberg’s “stick-up-the-ass sugar Nazism.” Ted Nugent read a selection of unreleased Ayn Rand poems at the event. Peter II delighted between 13 and 15 people by recounting an anecdote about the time he accidentally bought a sweatshop in Malaysia that manufactures novelty iPhone cases.  

Harry strikes a pose at last night’s vernissage for the Armory Show, wearing a silkscreened Mortal Kombat panople by French teen seamstress Veronique and whale-sperm eyebrow mousse by L’Oreale. He is photographed in front of politically-charged cast-iron sculptures by the Salvadorean artist known as ‘El Gordito,’ which depict heartbroken campesinos disinterring the corpse of Ronald Reagan while singing a ritual labor ditty. What did the Brants buy at the fair? By 8 p.m. they had already snapped up a mysteriously champagne-drenched canvas by Puerto Rican art stars Allora & Calzadilla; phallic photograms printed on papyrus by conceptual British wunderkind Sammy Harkness; and half a dozen “air sculptures” by the Berlin-based collective Die Schmeg, created by exhaling hot breath into empty envelopes. “I hate when people complain about how art fairs are all about the money,” Harry giggled. “Like, what else are you supposed to buy art with? It’s not like you can be all, ‘I’ll trade you five bananas and a Vitamin Water for that fucking Wade Guyton.’ “  Peter II kept mostly out of the fray, curled up on the couch in the V.I.P. room making languid, soundless gestures to no one in particular. Afterward the Brants took an experimental rocket-powered pedicab to the MoMA after party, where star headliners Jay-Z and Beyonce mugged for admirers while an unidentified individual performed music in the background.