Farting on Art: The Perils of Too Much Fanciness

I like to consider myself one of the higher classes of life. Wherever I go I bear myself with the bearing of, like, royal blood. In another life I would no doubt have been probably a Duke, or a Baron, or maybe even a Queen, if it's that kind of "other-life" body-switching experience. Regardless of my pre-predestination gender, I definitely fall into the category of so-called Blue Bloods. Blue Blood, of course, comes from two Olde Englishe words, "bleu," meaning "fancy," and "blud," meaning "as the flippin' King of flippin' England, dammit, so get on my level, Uh." I rarely wear the same clothing twice, especially my hand-tailored silkworm-silk Alexander McQueen pajama pants, which were just made to be disposable. I eat only the finest custom-made Twinkies and Devil Dogs. My conditioner consists of just three things: infant skin follicles, microscopic robot hair-doctors, and two lemons. Four things, never mind. I don't have an iPod; instead, a formerly popular rock band follows me around and plays whatever I shout out. They do double duty as my harem. In short, to paraphrase myself: I'm, like, royalty.

It's a universal standard, very similar to Albert "Hairbrushes Are For Squares" Einstein's e=MC, squared formula. Except, unlike Berty's silly science-y formula for nerds, this one is actually usable in and applicable to everyday life. To be specific, my everyday life. It doesn't really work for, well, for anyone else's, but that's one me more than can be said for Al's string of letters and numbers and an equal sign drawn from a hat. This is the BH = Royalty, Squared, Uh, formula. In all my five minutes spent scouring the world wide web I was unable to find anything nearly on par with my Albert was not a Blue Blood, and thus was highly unprepared to deal with things like classiness. He was pretty good with science, I'll admit, so he wasn't a complete waste of time, space, or any other dimension. See, lower classes of people really are necessary, I promise. They're useful for more than just roadblocks and garnering sympathy points from supermodels. Well, some of them. Some of them seem to have no lifelong desire besides being a charity case, or even a case for several charities all at once. Ayn Rand was so right.

But being one of the few (and I say this in all possible kindness) actually cultured people on earth comes with a heavy price tag.
Now, if the price was an actual price that you could pay with preferably a Visa or, in a pinch, cash, this would be no big deal for me (see above, re: high class, used to be a Queen, etc). In fact, based on the current global economic state it would probably be a very small deal, ha ha! That was an example of what we call "money humor." I will be using much of it throughout this piece to demonstrate how I am "savvy" with both "cash" and "jokes." This, however, is a tag of the mind, an intangible cost, a bar code on your very soul that can only be bought with, not soul-dollars (unfortunately I have discovered this is not valid currency) but something called "humility." Yeah, I haven't had much experience with it either. According to Forbes, it's the only way to truly share the love and passion that comes hand in hand, much like a friendly and well-trained Weimaraner, with this socioeconomic position I so gracefully embody. It's not a Weimaraner, though, because I have three and they are so much nicer than any of this humility nonsense could ever be. Weimaraners are pretty aristocratic, too. They mesh perfectly with the metaphysical color scheme I've got going in my house of a dimly lit fancy bordered by a nice, dark, extravagance. They're a perfect example of class, like your grandmother's porcelain vase from before they were cheap, except with fur and teeth and an unassuming bark. I often give Weimaraners as housewarming gifts. 
There's been a recent push among my fellow "fat cats", as we Blue Bloods call ourselves ironically, to reinvest ourselves into the world around and slightly below us. As one particularly obese feline put it, "We don't really know what's going down there. I think they still use cars and MySpace. Not for fun, either, for, like, necessity. It's sad, really. We need to get back down there, get our hands dirty, and bring back class, dammit! Let's remind the world why we own their governments!"

Billy Gates doesn't lie, folks.

 However, since we exist on a higher plane than the rest of you, a higher and more brightly lit plane, to be specific, there's no easy way to get down there. There's no easy way to drop yourself back into a tax bracket and come back in touch with your human emotions and rekindle relationships and stuff. It's a rough road down. That's where humility would come in. Supposedly it can make reconnecting to so-called "society" and interacting with the plebes a lot simpler. Humility is just the road-lubricant we need to spread all over ourselves and the road to save everyone involved a lot of pain. 

But humility can't just be found in my family-owned kennels down the street. Humility is like a fragile statue of a seagull: something that is highly revered in certain, cult-like parts of the world, yet completely useless everywhere else. Also like a seagull statue, it's not exactly in high supply or demand.

As of yet, I have not been able to find this fabled commodity quite literally anywhere. And I've looked pretty darn hard. Over hill and dale, through river and valley, from the highest Bloomingdale's to the lowest Wal-Mart: nowhere do they carry it. Nobody has it. All I can say is WTF, sir, WTF. That's what we in the business of money-making (forgery) refer to as distilled idiocy, stupid vol. 100%. Hasn't anyone heard the old Chinese adage, "If nobody else makes it, sell it and you will make a boatload of money"? That was one of Confucius's main precepts, on which he founded Confucius's Golden Palace, the first ever Chinese food place in history. If someone sold humility, he would, much like an attractive prostitute, find himself surrounded by hordes of fat old men offering wads of cash in their grubby little liver-spotted paws. And instead of hand-performed sexual favors (or just a nice conversation, depending on the old man), all that someone would need to give is one of the most of human emotions to people who have foregone that side of life in order to focus on something a bit more worthwhile, like prosperity and fortune and garages larger than most houses. It would be an easy occupation and require very few leather whips and gags.
Perhaps this person, this humbleness-whore, does exist. Perhaps he, or she, or maybe even a confused hermaphrodite, is hiding out there in some faraway, secluded location, like Canada or Idaho. Perhaps s/he is simply waiting for the right high-class person to get lost on a guided tour of Mother Nature's most intimate crevices and stumble upon his/her shadowy cave hidden behind a tree and ask him/her to share the secrets of humility for a modest fee. Perhaps, with the aid of this gender-fluid harlot of humility, class warfare can come to an end and all the world will sing "Kumbaya" in a language that none of us, yet all of us, understand. Perhaps it will be Klingon, or maybe whatever Jedis speak. Perhaps all religions will crumble as the world unites under the banner of the transgender Modesty Messiah and a global peace like none before will reign as we become fish-people. Humble fish-people. Perhaps I will one day understand humility.

What I'm projected to look like in forty years.

Or perhaps I will never be able to truly understand humility. But hey, as long as I have Jetskis, I'm actually cool with that.