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When my ancestors came over to this great country 400 years ago, they had a vision for a utopia, free from minorities, liberals, poor people, homosexuals, and immigrants. There are few today who share such lofty ideals, but we're easy to find: Pastel polo shirts, loafers without socks, tucked-in shirts, but most importantly, collars up. Call me a douche bag. Call me an arrogant little cock-sucking dickhead. Beat the shit out of me if I'm not with fifteen of my B-frat friends (unlikely). But just know this: I interned at Smith Barney this summer. Where did you work? A Blockbuster? That's right you insignificant sack of dog shit; I'm going to be your boss. So take your t-shirt wearing, financial aid, blue-collar ass over to Blockbuster and get me a copy of Old School. Do you even own a tuxedo? Look at my girlfriend. You think she'd go for someone who didn't have his collar up? I don't think so. I remember the night I met her. I bought her so many $9 drinks she couldn't even walk. So I drove her home in my BMW 328ci, but not before I took a few "liberties" with her. The next morning I took her to brunch and went to the mall, where I bought her some blouses. You assholes don't know the first thing about being a gentleman. You probably don't even know how to sail. When I get out of business school, I'm going to be making $120,000 a year. Add that to my trust fund, and I can buy a country club membership, a ski house, and still have enough money to go barhopping around the city in my designer clothes and shit-eating grin. Maybe I'll offer you a hundred bucks to flip my collar up for me. I earned it you middle-class fuck up. I bet you went to public school. You're so predictable. I bet I can guess your political party just by looking at you. My cronies and I range from elitist northern liberals to heartless conservative bastards. I've wasted enough time with you. Get some rich parents, an internship, and a pink polo with the collar up, and then maybe I'll let you hang out with me.
