Yo' MoMA is so poor, it only has two Jackson Pollocks. And one of them is in storage.

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Yo' MoMA's gift shop is so small, books with Frida Kahlo's unibrow on the cover are only available online.

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Yo' MoMA displays so few works by women, its name could stand for “Mostly Only Male Artists”.

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Yo' MoMA is so commercial, Picasso's Les Demoiselles d'Avignon are charging Pistoletto's Man With Yellow Pants up to $500 an hour. For sex. Because they're hookers.

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Yo' MoMA's admission price is so high, some of the artists on display can't afford to buy a ticket.

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Yo' MoMA's guards look so bored, I saw one of them lingering in front of Roy Lichenstein's Pistol hoping it would go off.

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Yo' MoMA's newest additions are so pretentious, the audio guide is just a 4-hour recording of someone sighing.

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Yo' MoMA has a weird silent film playing on a loop in a side room and it's programming everyone who watches it to be government assassin.

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Yo' MoMA's lobby is so big and empty, the elephant in the room could actually be the one Banksy spraypainted.

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Yo' MoMA closes so early, Salvador Dali's pocket watches didn't have time to melt.

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Yo' MoMA's exhibits change so infrequently, your entire museum should be in a museum.