Named pug & $8 coffee can't buy you out of existential dread

A New Yorker satirist weaponizes self-awareness to eviscerate the exact demographic that subscribes to The New Yorker, serving performative obliviousness dressed up as darkly ironic commentary. The bit hinges on that uniquely insufferable energy of rich people performing benevolent ignorance while named pets accessorize their moral bankruptcy. It's the kind of content that makes you unsure if you're laughing at the subject or complicit in their same exact behavior.