http://theneave.com/if-youre-poor-dont-go-on-vacation/#comment-11368
My Retort:
If you’re rich, you’re a dick.
With your plastic platinum stacked in your sleek leather wallets, and your attitudes of smug with matching attire, you stricken me with the urge of vomiting. As my sight of your Grey Poupon eating bag of meat body clears in my view, my ideas of why you arise nausea from me clears as well.
It must be hard on you having limitless card amounts (I assume, I have no real knowledge of such things, because I’m a pauper and all), but I can imagine the debates that your body is deprived sleep over because you can’t decide which Gucci watch to buy. I can see you that you must spend hours lost in thought in the twilights of night when that epiphany of buying both watches strikes your “Yolanda” soaked brain (the good cocaine, pure cut, you can afford the best).
Why, with all your gadgets of technology and unattainable quality of choice drugs, it’s a wonder you would leave your abode to grace us common people with your presence at all. It seems the instant you straggle from your drug hazed estate it becomes your ultimate goal to fucking annoy the regulars, with your constant nagging and boasting.
My gag reflex can only take so much, and if of you normal blokes have ever encountered one of these types you’ll know PRECIESLY what I’m rambling about. However, for those of you with solid iron stomachs, let me acidize your pallets with a scenario that might, or might not have occurred to me over the last past week. However beware, it did.
It all started at a dimly lit dining establishment, because this rich fucks enjoy celebrating themselves, toasting bottle upon bottle of Dom and taking small nibbles of their hundred dollar sirloins; which will end up in their so much classier versions of porcelain later. I, being the waitress to these run of mill, paper-cut snobs, greeted the table with a bright smile and promising attitude to boot. Instead of polite beams of teeth, I was cut with razor blade shears of pearly whites tonguing words of demands.
“Ah, before you speak another word, please bring us your finest sparkling and wine,” he interrupted my words of welcome.
With a nod and my teeth gnashing and grinding against my cheeks, I brought out a bottle of each, as I was asked. After presenting each and offering a small splash to sample, I was advised not to pour a glass.
“Both of these are too austere for my tastes, fetch another,” he bellowed.
Once again I sped off to fulfill his request, only to my dismay this incident repeated several more times, until he finally decided on our restaurants’ cheapest bottles. This small occurrence of repetitive history wasted twenty useful minutes of my time. Time, time spent running to and from the cellar to gather said bottles, while my other tables were rendered neglected.
As this party of four, or should I say quad-ling of unearned, old-moneyed shmucks filled their gullets with sparkle from crystal, they finally arrived at conclusion on choice of food. However, the words that stumbled off neatly outlined lip-liner, or from beneath trimmed mustaches, was a food that we had not listed on our menus.
My blood curdled, and I felt my eyes flush with the brilliance of red. To make these people who shit the same way as I, happy, I was now daunted with a task that would kill my tips on my other tables. These people, knowing the thorn which they had roosted between my ribs, handed back the menus with snickers.
Going to our particularly demanding Chef would take yet but more irreplaceable time, since he refuses to talk to wait-staff, I would have to work the chain of command going through sue chef and sue chef to get one simple three letter response.
But at last, with an answer in hand I strode back quickly to the table only to find my beast of guests complaining to my manager. They were already embarking on a path to get their meal which hadn’t even crossed their lips yet, compted. Squeaky bitches get the oil.
The rest of the dinner runs smoothly, with them knowing they have my full attention and a free meal. To top this Crème Brule of a situation, I am victim to their spawns endless boast fest. He coo’s on about his graduation present of a Porsche; nostrils flaring that it’s only in stock color. I listen to this compost of shit which I could give a fuck less about, with a white grin. He finishes his marathon of bragging with a trip to Hawaii that once again, is not to his liking, since it is only fourteen days. Oh, the troubles of you rich-eys, how my compassion goes out for you.
Rich? Stay at home. Or get your own personal Chef who tolerates your shit and gets paid way better than I do. Both of these ideas are better than bothering a poor student waitress with your blathers of your richness.
And what exactly is to be done with these platinum cultured freaks during the hours of the day? You can’t drive anywhere without them pretending our freeways are European open speed roads.
Hopefully, when they cut you off after not even yielding at the stop sign, you are able to break quickly or else you’ll be stuck trying to gather witnesses who, “Just don’t want to get involved.” Either way “The Man” is going to opt to stick it to you, the commoner, because the rich are always right. To top your cup off, your full coverage insurance will just want to pay his lawyers, spite the fact that he should be compensating you.
Hell, these people don’t even need to comment on others, yet they do. They just can’t see that their opinions are equivalent to flies circling shit. These body racks of million dollar jewels, will make arguments about why the common people are poor; “They lack motivation,” or why they feel un-nerved by poverty on the tube, “They are all supported by Welfare,” or where our money goes, “They are all Drunkards, Crack-heads, or Gamblers.”
To all of these quotes: GO FUCK YOURSELVES!
Motivation? We common herd of people are the legs you stand on.
Welfare? It’s not attainable by everyone. Now, I have never needed the aid of food stamps but I have needed medical coverage. However, to my surprise the states retort was, “Are you pregnant?”
“No,” I replied.
“Are you retarded?”
“Not since the last time I checked.”
“Then you do not qualify for Nevada’s medical insurance.”
Period. The end. Go flounder in debt to “The Man.”
Drunkards, Crack-heads, or Gamblers? I love the dent you put in my forehead with you contradictory stones. Take another slurp of that scotch you have in your sausage fingers, you are the drunks. Constantly taking glitz and glam trips to Vegas to spend gobs of dough on blackjack and slop holed prostitutes, you are the gamblers. And Crackheads? Really? If it’s not Grade “A” drugs then you’re considered scum? I think to the sober people of the world, you are both still drug addicts.
I can see you, checking your Facebook, with your silver spoons in mouth and a schmooze fest minutes around the corner. You look up and thank your God “Moo-la” for that platinum totem in your wallet. And while we sweat, struggle, and die contributing to our country you lavish in your luxury and count your lucky stars. Just the crimson thought of you spending an ounce of your time helping your community churns your stomach with pain, a quick sip of that intoxicating elixir and the idea vanishes… what a relief.
Finding a use for rich people is like taking a midget to a theme park: FUCKING USELESS.
What I hoped you have gained from this:
If you’re rich/wealthy/financially secure, YOU’RE A DICK! Please just do us a favor and take out that glock the next time you get those cocaine blues, better yet, foam at the mouth in pain striking overdose convulsions.
No comments:
Post a Comment