Alright.
Let’s get something straight.
The world is divided into two kinds of people. There are winners, who demand the best because they are the best. And there are losers, who accept mediocrity because that’s what they are.
I, and people like me, exist in the first category. We generate massive value, we move the needle, and we expect the world to conform to our standards. This isn’t arrogance. It’s a simple transaction. We provide excellence, we receive excellence.
Which is why what I’m about to tell you isn’t just a hotel review. It’s a case study in the collapse of standards. A funeral for what was once considered “luxury.”
I just checked out of The Plaza Hotel in New York. The fucking Plaza. A name that echoes with a century of old-money prestige. I spent two thousand, five hundred dollars. Per night.
And I feel like I need a shower to wash off the stench of their deception.
Let me break down for you, in excruciating detail, how the myth of “5-star luxury” was systematically dismantled before my eyes.
First, The Grand Illusion: The “Room”
You walk in, expecting a sanctuary. What you get is a closet with delusions of grandeur. For $2500 a night, I don’t want a “room.” I want a domain. I want space to think, to breathe, to command. This was a $400-a-night box in a disguise. The furniture wasn’t “classic” or “vintage,” it was tired. It was the furniture your rich, slightly senile aunt has in her guest room—the kind that has seen better decades. Scratches on the desk. A minibar that looked like it was sourced from a mid-range corporate apartment. This isn’t luxury. This is a museum of mediocrity. You’re not paying for opulence; you’re paying for the ghost of opulence past.
Then, The Betrayal: The Filth
I have a simple, non-negotiable rule. A luxury establishment should be clinically, impeccably, spotlessly clean. It is the absolute baseline.
I found not one, but two strands of hair on the bathroom floor. One was blond. I have dark hair. Let that sink in. The “maid service” had failed at their most fundamental task. The towels weren’t even uniformly fluffy. One was thick and plush, the next was thin and sandpaper-rough. It’s a small detail, but it screams a lack of care. It tells you the management does not have control. It tells you they are cutting corners. In my world, losing control is the first step to losing everything. For $2500, I shouldn’t be able to conduct a forensic analysis of the previous guest’s hygiene.
The Final Insult: The Poisoned Food
This is where my disappointment curdled into pure, unadulterated rage.
I ordered the seafood. Why? Because when you’re at a top-tier hotel, you expect the ingredients to be pristine. What arrived was a crime scene on a plate. The moment I cut into the scallop, the smell hit me. It wasn’t the fresh, oceanic scent of quality seafood. It was the faint, sickly sweet odor of spoilage. It was off.
Let me be perfectly clear: This isn’t a mistake. This is negligence. This is a kitchen that either cannot tell the difference between fresh and rotten, or worse, doesn’t care. For the price I was paying, they served me food that could have put me in the hospital. This is beyond unacceptable. This is dangerous. This is the kind of failure that shatters reputations. My dog has higher standards for what he eats off the floor.
The Bottom Line
The Plaza, and places like it, are running a sophisticated scam. They are not selling you luxury. They are selling you the memory of luxury. They are preying on people who want to feel elite but lack the discernment to see the cracks in the facade.
They charge you for the name. For the postcard view. For the history books. But they deliver a product that would be laughed out of a genuine, modern, top-tier hotel in Dubai or Singapore.
This is what the matrix does. It sells you a dream and delivers a mediocre reality, hoping you’ll be too polite, too weak, too brainwashed by the brand name to complain.
I am not most men. I see the matrix. I call it out.
I didn’t just check out of The Plaza. I escaped it. I took my $5,000 for a two-night stand and invested it in something that actually delivers value. Because that’s what Top Slaylebrities do. We don’t tolerate the decay of standards. We expose it.
So if you’re thinking of booking a room at The Plaza to feel like a king, save your money.
Or better yet, go. See the decay for yourself. Then you’ll understand exactly what I mean when I say the entire world is infested with weakness. And it’s our job to be the cure.
Your comfort with mediocrity is the reason they get away with it. Break the cycle. Demand more.
INSTAGRAM: @THEPLAZAHOTEL
Followers: 290600
A funeral for what was once considered luxury… The world is divided into two kinds of people. There are winners, who demand the best because they are the best. And there are losers, who accept mediocrity because that’s what they are. I, and people like me, exist in the first category. We generate massive value, we move the needle, and we expect the world to conform to our standards. This isn't arrogance. It's a simple transaction. We provide excellence, we receive excellence.
I just checked out of The Plaza Hotel in New York. The fucking Plaza. A name that echoes with a century of old-money prestige. I spent two thousand, five hundred dollars. Per night. And I feel like I need a shower to wash off the stench of their deception.
The myth of 5-star luxury was systematically dismantled before my eyes.
First, The Grand Illusion: The Room You walk in, expecting a sanctuary. What you get is a closet with delusions of grandeur. For $2500 a night, I don’t want a room. I want a domain.
I want space to think, to breathe, to command. This was a $400-a-night box in a disguise.
The furniture wasn’t classic or vintage, it was tired. It was the furniture your rich, slightly senile aunt has in her guest room—the kind that has seen better decades.
Scratches on the desk. A minibar that looked like it was sourced from a mid-range corporate apartment. This isn’t luxury. This is a museum of mediocrity. You’re not paying for opulence; you’re paying for the ghost of opulence past.
Then, The Betrayal: The Filth I have a simple, non-negotiable rule. A luxury establishment should be clinically, impeccably, spotlessly clean. It is the absolute baseline. My dog has higher standards for what he eats off the floor. The Plaza, and places like it, are running a sophisticated scam. They are not selling you luxury. They are selling you the memory of luxury.
