Rich Kids with Tight Pants

Posted by Fleeceman on November 9th, 2008 filed in Personalities, Pigeonholed

 

Sheltered rich kids have such a dazed look about them: as if the real world is a little too bright for their delicate sensibilities.

 

They get their first job and they show up wearing slacks that are a tad too tight, and a sweater a size too small. This look is not to be confused with the quick-talking, coffee-drinking hipster, but is closer associated with the idea that his mom still dresses him, or his boarding school never showed him how to dress properly.

Not that I’m harboring an inherent dislike for rich kids. I’ve known quite a few who I’d be willing to share my pizza with, but overall, the squinty-eyed, pasty-faced, quoff-dood gentiles who look like they’ve had too much brie and sat through one too many conversations where everybody’s lower jaw extended as they shared their respective tales of the Schmoopy Doops are people I don’t want to deal with — unless that dealing concerns them handing me money.

There’s also a difference in the boys and girls. In most cases the boys are sent out into the real world (albeit with a regularly replenished bank account), and rarely are they trained in the wiley ways of the actual world. Most figure it out, but there are a few chumps who never quite get it.

The girls are born shrewd, and through the watchful eyes of Incredibly Important Dad and Lady by Day, Vixen by Night Mother, the daughters become modern day huntresses, capable of tagging you in the temple with a metaphoric rock or hucking a spear right through your spine as if you were an unsuspecting Wooly Mammoth caught by Ayla in Clan of the Cavebear.

“Oh, Jandalar!”

I mean shrewd in a complementary fashion, unless that same shrewdness turns into bitch.

When I’m valet parking, there are a select few people who ignore the red shirt, at which time I knock on their windows in case they’re driving blind. Today a lady drove in and almost ran me over in her obvious contempt for the red-shirted servant in front of her car. I knocked several times on her driver’s side window. She opened her driver’s window and yelled,

“Don’t you ever knock that hard on my window ever again! I have a flat tire and came out here for assistance.”

Lady, I don’t care if your vagina fell off and is currently rolling around on your carpeted floor like an aborted sea lion fetus.

All you had to do was acknowledge my presence and I would have accommodated your needs in any way possible. As it is, you pull in like it’s your own private Idaho, yell at me like I’m your retarded servant who accidentally emptied a wheelbarrow full of horse shit into your trunk, then talk loudly on your phone about closing some deal but only after you’ve raised the price on your client until they squirm.

Based on your harpy-like attitude it’s obvious you’ve never experienced a flat tire. I’m willing to bet that on the days you’ve got a manicure or a styling appointment it’s like the end of the fucking world if you’re deterred in the slightest.

A slow barista at Starbucks would send you into ulcerous conniptions.

A broken heel on your shoe is tantamount to someone slaughtering your newborn with a machete. That is, if your ice-cold uterus had ever been capable of producing anything but a fishy stench of penis-shriveling proportions.

Screw you, lady. Take your crotchety self elsewhere, with your bland grey suit skirt and fitted white blouse. Don’t trip on your way out.