You Deserve the Best
You Deserve the Best
Is your life colorless and meaningless, a virtual replay of the day before? Add some color and meaning with the best. Suffering from cold coffee and cold sex? Try the warm loving touch of the best. Do you crave respect, love, admiration, fame? How about the best? Do crave the best? Your neighbors do, your parents do, your children do, your enemies do, how about you? Do you deserve the best? Of course you do. Can you afford the best? If you can’t afford the best, you can go for second best and pretend it’s the best, or you can go ahead and buy the best anyway. If you can afford the best, then what are you waiting for? Buy the best, you deserve the best, you really do deserve the best.
I had a roommate in college that, while starving and barely able to come up with rent, would insist on only drinking Sierra Nevada, that beer that’s like $9 a six pack and tastes like a bag of rusty nails soaked in urine. It’s not bad enough that he would constantly lay down tales of monetary woe, he’d also constantly harass me for drinking King Cobra, quality malt liquor weighing in at 99 cents per 40oz. It tasted just fine to me, but he never hesitated to dish out piles of disbelief from his lofty consumer position – “I can’t believe you drink that stuff!” Usually, more out of boredom than any concern for personal defense, I’d argue back.
“We both drink beer we like, we both get fucked up, and tomorrow we’re back where we started, only you’re 8 bucks poorer than me.”
“Yeah, but that bum piss you call beer tastes like shit and you look like an idiot drinking out of that huge bottle.”
The argument was eventually simplified to two sentences.
“You’ve got poor taste.”
“You’ve got poor judgment.”
And so the conflict raged until I saved enough money to trade in dark and rainy Indiana for sunny and overpopulated California, and he ended up going broke, dropping out of college, and moving back in with his parents, where he’s probably still reassuring his high human quality with overpriced beer and imported cigarettes. Good taste is a very important and useful trait.
Buying `the best’ can sometimes be the worst thing to do. How many times have you heard of someone getting jumped for a pair of ripped up old Vans, or shot for their second hand wind breaker? If that Cosby kid wasn’t driving a $130,000 car, he’d probably still be alive today. Plus, after justifying such an investment, you have to bust your ass taking care of it, which is really not very fun at all. I just bought a mountain bike. I went to the bike store and saw models that ranged upwards of what I’d spend on a new car. Explaining the price range I had in mind, the salesperson snorted and pointed me to the kids’ bikes. On the way to the children’s department, I found a line of cheap sale bikes that fit the bill pretty nicely. I paid in cash, and rolled out the door, out into the rain, down onto the beach, over curbs, off 3 foot walls, down steps, across fields, whatever. I didn’t have a $5000 bike to worry about ruining, I could steer it any fucking place I wanted to, leave it locked somewhere without worrying too much about stealing it, and even if it did get stolen, I could buy 50 more for the price of the other bike. Far from suffering from a lack of quality, my cheap bike gets me around, and I’m not sweating bullets every time it leaves my apartment. Sure, I might get some knowing smiles from other bike owning creeps who paid dearly for a right to brag, but like I was told by a past boss who admitted to having a tiny dick, “if you have more fun with yours than I do with mine, I don’t know how you can stand it.”
Yet, we’ve all somehow been convinced us that we `deserve the best’, `the best’ usually meaning the most expensive. Like our entire self worth is determined by what quality of product we consume, placing some asshole in a Lexus at the top of the food chain and putting someone with a thrift store bike somewhere between pigeons and HTML programmers. It seems like only 50 years ago, if you constantly spent twice as much money as you had to and opened your wallet to every snake oil and magic bean salesman that opened his suitcase on a busy street, neighbors and family would correctly label you for the fool you are and turn you out into the cold, laughing at the $400 hat on your bloated, frozen corpse. But not today, oh no. Spend enough money, and you are an instant success. Respected, envied, lusted after. It doesn’t matter if you sold your baby into slavery, sold crack to 3rd graders, killed for cash, or even worked for an oil company, the circumstances don’t show up on a $500 pair of shoes, just the respect of every wide-eyed jackass you pass.
Not that it bothers me that some people have lots of money to spend on the `finer things’, I’m sure their lawyers and accountants worked very hard for that money. What really bothers me is the stupid shit they spend money on, jewelry for example. There are three species on Earth attracted to shiny objects: raccoons, crows, and imbeciles. There is nothing so stupid, so vain, so infantile as fine jewelry. It has no function whatsoever, save adding some financial color to the goosey neck of a withered bag whose better days have passed, or as a `look how much money I have’ smoke screen thrown up by one hoping to get laid before the victim discovers a complete lack of personality, depth, or character on your part. I can understand shelling out a few dollars for a tastefully made wedding band, or possibly even a neckpiece to go with a fancy dress, but anything beyond that should be instantly seized and sold, with profits going to people who can be trusted to buy worthwhile things. We’ve been guilted into buying diamonds and sapphires as symbols of our love, hoping, like the diamond commercial says, to `show them you really care’. What we really say is “Honey, I spent $15,000 on a shiny piece of metal that you can only wear a few times a year, and will spend the rest of the year locked in a safe for you to worry about while we’re on vacation.” But maybe that’s the point with jewelry, it really says, “I don’t know you anymore, or even care too much about you anymore, so I’m gonna spend a pile of money on a generic shiny bauble that will hopefully shut you up until next year.”
Luxury cars are another thing that makes me scratch my nuts in confusion. Doesn’t that bald guy in the Ferrari realize how stupid he looks to everyone else? Maybe he can run game on trashy waitresses at the mall, but to anyone of any intelligence, he’s a little boy screaming for attention, pathetically requesting the world to envy and respect a worthy individual who can afford such a ridiculous machine to move himself from important place to important place. Or the woman who tools around in her gold Mercedes, wallet full of credit cards, absolutely assured of her place in society because of her bankroll, which she may or may not have even contributed to. I may be wrong, but America seems like the only country on the planet where any jerk with half a million dollars can buy his way into the aristocracy. Through no ability other than acquiring money, one can buy the respect of most sheep around them. “She must be clever,” they bleat as she drives by in her new Jag, “to be so well off.” Whereas any sane person would wonder, “what’s up with the insecure bitch in the overpriced car?” There’s nothing wrong with having loot, but assuming that because someone has money, they’re good, quality people worthy of respect will probably assure you a life cleaning their toilets. Status symbols are for the weak of character possessing a need to be respected, but without ability to gain respect by any other means than giving cash to merchants around town, who are more than happy to fill holes in luxurious lives.
If by some flaw in universal justice I was allowed to amass a large amount of money, you can bet your Diesel jeans that I wouldn’t spend it the worthless, overpriced crap I’m supposed to in hopes of upping my own personal worth. I’d spend it on stupid things like robots and assault rifles, have a haunted castle built on the cliffs of the Pacific to launch potatoes at sailboats, a jetski with lasers, casks of wine, a room made completely of stacked stereo speakers, 40 ft. plastic dinosaurs, whatever. It seems by the time people get enough money to be able to do what they want, they’ve been sucked dry of all energy and creativity to properly enjoy the opportunities presented by being able to do whatever they want. They spend it on objects from the approved pool of rich kid toys – jewelry, yachts, cars, real estate, live-in blowjob machines. But many of those people enjoy making money more than they do spending it, and thus fill their lives with people whose jobs it is to make sure that the money piles don’t so big they block the view of the very impressive house. If I had cash, I wouldn’t use it to buy my way into society, I’d use it to ignore society. 50 foot walls. Tell a cop to fuck off and hand him $500 to look the other way. You got the money, you make the rules. Fuck the fit in if you can build your own castle, you do, after all, deserve the best.