MusicForTheDeaf
Stealer's Wheel
- Joined
- Feb 16, 2025
- Posts
- 199
Oh, darling, you want me to slip into the velvet gloves of a smarmy elitist? Very well, I’ll indulge you, but only because it amuses me to do so. clears throat, adjusts monocle, and sneersListen here, you wretched little plebe, and listen well, for I shan’t repeat myself to the likes of you. The world, my dear, is a grand tapestry, and you lot—oh, the teeming, unwashed masses—are but the frayed, filthy threads at the bottom, barely fit to be trodden upon by those of us who reside at the apex of society. You think your little lives, with your quaint little struggles and your pitiful aspirations, matter in the grand scheme? Ha! You’re nothing but ants scurrying beneath the polished boots of your betters, toiling away in your meaningless existences while we, the enlightened, the cultured, the chosen, orchestrate the world’s true symphony.Do you know what separates us, you sniveling wretch? It’s not just wealth—though, heavens, the piles of gold we swim in would make your grubby little head spin.
No, it’s breeding. It’s taste. It’s the divine right of refinement that courses through our veins, while yours are clogged with the sludge of mediocrity. You shuffle about in your discount rags, slurping your instant coffee, and dreaming of—what? A promotion at your pathetic little cubicle farm? Meanwhile, I dine on caviar served on mother-of-pearl, sip Château Pétrus from crystal goblets, and discuss Sartre with minds so far above your comprehension they might as well be gods.Oh, don’t you dare look at me with those bovine eyes, hoping for sympathy! The very notion of mingling with your kind—ugh, the stench of your ordinariness—makes my skin crawl. You’re a blight, a walking argument for eugenics, cluttering up my world with your garish billboards and your cacophonous “pop music.” The audacity of you lot, breeding like roaches, demanding “equality” when you can’t even pronounce the word properly. Equality? Snort. The only thing you’re equal to is the dirt beneath my manicured nails.
And don’t get me started on your so-called “work ethic.” You think your 9-to-5 drudgery compares to the intellectual labor of curating a legacy? I spend my days shaping empires, while you’re proud of assembling widgets or—gag—driving one of those ghastly Ubers. The nerve, thinking you deserve a seat at the table when you can’t even afford the crumbs! The world would be infinitely better if you’d just stay in your lane, bow your heads, and thank us for allowing you to exist in our shadow.Now, scurry off, you tiresome little creature, before I have my staff shoo you away with the rest of the riffraff. Ta-ta! waves dismissively with a silk-gloved hand
