My last article came about after an argument with a friend. His assertion was those who read my website worshiped me and would listen to anything I said. I told him not to be fooled. My audience is a fickle bunch who would turn their collective backs on me the very second I wrote something disagreeable.
I haven’t been doing this whole web thing for very long, but I have managed to learn a few things. My first lesson was that as long as I attacked the right target, my audience would describe me as utterly brilliant, fascinating and logical, and a person of such high character that I would attain best friend status if not for the damnable Internet keeping us apart. However, should I take a stance contrary to their own, I’d have them shrieking like mommybloggers. Hell, even Atheists, who generally pride themselves on being calm and logical, went all ‘Ryan Holiday’ on me in the face of some very minor teasing.
Dear Bloggers, there’s no such thing as fans on the Internet. You’re only popular as long as you display yourself as a mirror image of those you’re writing for. I think I’ve proven my point pretty well in that regard. Love, V.
The most hilarious part of the last update (If you understood the mentality behind it) was that no one really noticed exactly who I was mocking. An avid WoW player? The type of person to be antagonistic just for the sake of pissing people off? A snob? Oh, come on now! Who does that sound like to you? HOW LONG HAVE YOU BEEN READING THIS CRAP? If yesterday’s update was your first, I suppose you do have some excuse. If not, you’re an idiot. Seriously.
Oh, perhaps I’m too hard on you guys. On top of that, I probably haven’t delved into my particular level of snobbishness as much as I could have. But let me assure you all right here and now that I highly doubt there is any person alive on this planet that is a bigger snob than me. If anyone even came close, I’d be surprised.
If you own what I’ve dubbed a ‘white trash status symbol,’ such as an above ground swimming pool or a backyard trampoline, I look down you. If I meet your children and they don’t immediately shake my hand and tell me they’re pleased to meet me, I look down on you. If you spend your money frivolously, I look down on you. If you answer your cell phone in the midst of polite company, I look down on you. If, when asked what kind of vodka you prefer in your drink, you respond with the words ‘whatever is cheapest!,’ not only will I look down on you, but I will refuse to dine with you again. If you just read that last sentence with a confused expression on your face because you have no idea how to order cheap booze without appearing as a classless buffoon, then I don’t even want to be introduced to you. (Hint: House vodka will be fine, sir.)
Keep in mind that my particular brand of snobbishness is not reserved for broke people either. In fact, I’m probably a bit more critical of those with money. So if you have theater seating in your house, I look down on you. If you flash around large, expensive jewelry because you think it makes you look like hot shit, I look down on you. If you name drop, I look down on you. If you discuss how much you made on a business venture or investment in detail, without being asked specifics, I look down on you. I was raised to believe that’s it’s impolite to use your wealth to be obnoxious or make others feel inferior.
In fact, right this very second there is a 50? 60? inch television set in my living room, bought and paid for by my dear husband, and every time I walk past it, I want to spit fucking nails. In normal circumstances, I would look down on the type of people who would buy a ridiculously large television set. But there mine sits. In my living room. Mocking me. Whenever people come over, I have to fight the urge to hide it under a blanket. How humiliating.
Furthermore, I judge the quality of someone’s character by how they treat people in the service industry. So if you look right through the girl jockeying the register at the local 7-11 like she’s not even there or (worse) fail to sincerely thank her for her time and effort, I look down on you. Moreover, irritation or anger is no excuse for forgetting your manners. Which is why, even if the midst of extreme fury, I will say crazy shit to people like, “Will you please shut your mouth before I stick my foot in your ass, sir!” Trust me, I realize it doesn’t make much sense, but I guess that’s what happens when you invent your own particular brand of morality. There’s no fucking consistency.
[Side note: There are people no doubt reading right now thinking, “I’m not going to kiss up to people in the service industry. It’s their job to wait on me. It’s their job to be nice. I’m not going to kiss their ass because they are doing their job. Blah, blah, fucking, blah.” To them I say, yeah, but they chose that job. They could have made it their job to rob your fucking house or sell cocaine to your ugly fucking kid, by they didn’t. Instead, they decided to get up at 5 o’clock in the fucking morning to make your coffee and tell you to have a nice day. If don’t respect that, then fuck off right now, you classless piece of shit.]
Have I made my point yet? I hope so, because sometimes, I seriously lay in bed at night lulling myself to sleep by thinking of new and unusual ways to ‘quietly judge’ people. What can I say? When I told you all I was an evil, small minded little person, I wasn’t lying.
Some have said that part of the reason there was so much friction between my Mother and I was due to my tendency to make my distaste in her lifestyle choices obvious. When my Father was alive, my upbringing was very….just so, if that makes sense? And when he died, I was unable to ‘slum it’ with the same zest and zeal as my Mother. My Mother embraced (which is a nice way to say ‘fucked’) people I wouldn’t have spit on (because it’s impolite to spit) and she often insisted that I thought I was better than her. And she was right. Even when I was 7 years old, I thought I was better than my Mother. Not only that, but I totally lacked the ability to keep the sneer of disdain off of my face.
Looking back, I don’t half blame her for punching it in.
Now that I’m older, I have quit seriously playing the ‘who is better than who’ game…mostly because I always come up short. Deep down I know that those I criticize might do things in pretty poor taste a lot of the time, but they generally have more compassion and kindness in their toenail clippings than I have in my whole body. Not only that, but until I can learn to reel in my own inner asshole, I really have no right to judge anyone else.
But I will anyway. So nyah.
With that said, I still prefer the company of other snobs than that of normal folks. Not because I think they’re better people, mind you, but simply because they’re easier to entertain. In large groups, I’ve always had this need to make sure everyone is relaxed and having a good time. For that to happen, I usually have to put on my ‘dancing monkey’ suit and make everyone laugh.
Now if I’m hanging out with a normal, everyday, laid back group of individuals, this is a difficult task. I’m not the only ‘funny friend’ they have, so the entertainment bar is significantly higher. I’ve really got to be on my game with these people and sometimes the pressure is intense.
On the other hand, with a group of snobs, not only am I the funniest friend they’ve ever had, but I’m literally the only funny person they’ve ever known. So let’s just say I don’t have to tap too far into my ‘wit well’ to turn these guys on.
A perfect example of this would be the Monster Truck Rally I went to a couple of weeks ago. My family and I attended with 3 other small families, and even though we had our own private box with plush comfortable couches, private bathroom, professionally catered food with free top shelf alcohol, we all began the evening by lamenting how awful it was to be at a Monster truck rally in a building full of people who could be potentially chewing tobacco and how, God forbid, we were only doing this for the kids.
We continued to complain over the roar of the big, ridiculous trucks as the children watched avidly. Finally, we noticed the noise had died down and we looked around curiously to see if the show had mercifully ended. It hadn’t. Instead, there was a sort of halftime show going on where a buxom blonde was preparing to shoot herself out of a cannon.
One of the other chicks said something along the lines of, “I can’t believe she has a job getting shot out of a cannon. How gross. I’d rather work at McDonald’s than do something like that.”
Curtly, I replied, “Well, look at her. What else could she possibly do? It was either this or low grade stripper.”
Lame joke, I know, but you would not believe how they stirred their martinis and laughed!
The whole evening was a piece of cake. It was almost too easy! As I age, I notice I’m getting more and more socially lazy.
In the midst of all this pointless conjecture, I’ve noticed that I’ve once again digressed from my initial point…which was, quite simply, to quit taking me so goddamn seriously.
Also, I hope you all remember this 6 weeks from now when I write a post mocking crazy people.
- Fifteen and Already a Wife
- Retard Genocide
- Where Are the Baby Factories? On Livejournal, Of Course!
- The Biggest Tragedy of the Welfare System
- How I Almost Got Sued In My First 30 Days of Writing