You see, you’re the kind of son of a bitch who walks around saying things like, “Hot enough for you?’ and “Gee, you look like shit.” You’re the kind of guy who cuts people off in traffic, waves at them, then flicks a cigarette butt into their car’s grill.
You litter. And worse than that, you litter everywhere you go because your precious car and your precious suit pockets don’t deserve to have garbage in them, not even for a second. I guess you’re garbage enough for your car.
"You spend $35 on your T-shirts and three hours getting ready for a night out."
You’re racist as fuck yet you have black “friends.” You drink and drive and criticize others for doing it when they get caught. You hear a story on the news and assume the “facts” are gospel.
You won’t shut up about your fantasy team.
You talk shit about poor people as if your parents didn’t pay for your car, your college, and (essentially) your career.
You only drink single malt, 7-year-old scotch, and every time you serve me a drink of your obnoxiously snobby shit you give me a background story to go with my glass of booze. Fuck off.
You’re overweight as hell and you blame it on an old sports injury and not the fact that you wolf down ten calzones a month, you pudgy sack of gluttony.
You played lacrosse in college.
Your girlfriend stays with you because you’re rich and she doesn’t have to work. Plus, she needed someone as shallow and vapid as she is. That way, she stays hot and you stay rich.
Your girlfriend’s tits are fake. Nice, but fake nonetheless.
You got your job through Daddy’s connections, you drop famous names into every conversation, and you’ve been to Cape Cod, Napa Valley and Aspen all in the same year.
You think everyone wants to hear your fucking story.
You were a Yankees fan in ’96, a Red Sox fan in ’04, and a Rams fan in ’00. You won’t admit to any of that though, you lying piece of bandwagon refuse.
Your jokes were all on television or in a movie at one time. Your favorite book has the word “Dummies” in the title. You tried to make me drink peach fucking beer.
You know a guy who can score you Cuban cigars; you always have the VIP passes and the box seats.
You spend $80 on your haircuts and you frost your fucking tips. You spend $35 on your T-shirts and three hours getting ready for a night out.
You. Got. Yours.
What you don’t have is a sense of decency, the realization that class isn’t something that you buy and the understanding that you are a total fucking bore.
People put up with you because you have money and an inside track on the finer things in life. But they all hate you.
You don’t respect your fellow humans, you don’t know what love is, and you’ve never seen the inside of a holding cell. Your life is purchased (mainly by others), your opinions are reiterations of radio shows, and you only think you know how to think.
And whenever you leave one of your classy, wine-snob piano bars, some dude from Europe turns to his friend, points to where you sat and says, “Now that’s what’s wrong with America.”
You sir, are a fucking blowhard.
And I pray to God that you don’t reproduce.
But I’ll settle for you staying the fuck away from my side of town.
Douche.
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