Let’s talk about the underwhelming-ness of snob-face better-than-you’s.
You know the ones, even if I did just create a new subculture for you to consider. I’ve spoken of them before. The American Psycho-types with their Car and Driver whiskey knowledge and their golfer’s butts and their girlfriend’s Porsche. Or, maybe it’s their Porsche, but it’s probably a rental.
They say things like AMEX instead of American Express. Or, maybe they’ll announce loudly, “Do you take American Express?” just so the whole damn table they’re with and the Barbie doll they’ve lured into their clutches can hear that, hey, I have a limitless credit card. (Yes, but don’t you have to pay the balance every month?) Yes, well, if you’re responsible then that’s no problem.
You’re not fooling Barbie, by the way. She thinks your stupid, too.
Go drive somebody else crazy with your wet-martini-neat-hold-the-fruit. CALL IT WHAT IT IS. IT’S VODKA. YOU’RE DRINKING VODKA. In a fancy glass.
The whole sinister scene makes me a rightful cynic, to be honest. And that’s just a ridiculously annoying tragedy. It’s irony, if you ask the elderly folk who see my dimples and think that means they can pat my arm and treat me like their pet. I feel too prickly to be treated like a child and too soft to be badgered by the crass and critical.
It’s a weird world. One where if we could all sit down and look each other in the face and see the person there, then it would be a lot less weird. A lot less snob-face. A lot more it. You know, that thing we can never quite place but long for with everything we have.