I have a lot to thank you for. You show me every day what it feels like to know that you are better than everyone else. You show me what it looks like to beat off with the Wall Street Journal. You’ve shown me that you really aren’t important unless your dad owns a slave. Heck, you’ve even proven to me that even God makes mistakes. You prove it to me every day.
May I remind you, Mr. Doucher, of some of your typical lines: “Damn that girl wants to chug my cock,” or “My frat used to spend $2,000 on a Tuesday night pregame. Only top shelf liquor.” Let me put things into perspective for you: no girl has ever wanted to chug your cock because you play squash. Squash grows in my grandma’s veggie garden.
Don’t get me wrong, I appreciate your candidness. I love knowing that you went to a boarding school in the North East. I love knowing that your grandfather used to let you steer his Porsche when you were only twelve years old. I’m thoroughly impressed that you can compute the weighted average cost of capital in your head while simultaneously writing your name backwards in Latin hieroglyphics.
Despite all that, Mr. Doucher, I think I could like you. Inherently, I have nothing wrong with people like you. But what pushes me over the edge. What really grinds my gears. The straw that really breaks my back. It’s your duck boots. You wear them shamelessly. They were designed for…well…shit, I don’t even know what they were designed for. Duck hunting I presume. Not trekking to class and screaming “Old Money”. Let me give you a bit of my own candidness: I am not old money. In fact, I have no money. But I have a little pride. Try it on for size, I think it’d fit better than your boots.
Hatefully,
Everyone
