Have you ever noticed how people judge you by what kind of stuff you own? For example, if you own a car, people automatically assume you know how to drive. If you own a backpack, people automatically assume you have a back. If you own a gas station, people automatically assume you're a gas station owner.
In reality, any and all of these assumptions could be false. Maybe you bought a car just to keep in your driveway because the color contrasts nicely with your house. Maybe you own a backpack, but you have to schlep it along in a wagon because you lost your back tragically in a poker tournament. Maybe you own a gas station, but the thing is, it's not actually ... you're sort of not ... no, I guess that really does make you a gas station owner.
One time I went to a bank wearing cutoff jean shorts, and the bank manager was like, "Excuse me, this bank is for wealthy people only. Please leave."
"Appearances can be deceiving," I retorted, slowly reaching for my wallet. To my dismay, however, the wallet had slipped through a hole in the back pocket of my jean shorts. Or rather, the entire pocket had disappeared after my family had been forced to use scraps of fabric for kindling back during the cold, cold winter of 1987. In any event, my wallet was lost, which meant I was unable to furnish that picture of Mexican billionaire Carlos Slim Helú wearing cutoff jean shorts, and the bank manager got off scot-free (though he did not get off my-middle-finger-free).
Utterly dejected, I decided to visit Wal-Mart to boost my spirits. When I entered the store, the greeter said, "Good afternoon, sir! Although I can see your jorts are tattered, you are always welcome at Wal-Mart. Always. But just to remind you, we maintain tight security throughout the store, and since your ragged attire suggests you are here to steal, we will always be watching you. Always." Even the smiley face mascot glared at me through his beady eyes. Apparently having to roll back prices 24/7 and not possessing a distinguishable torso or legs have made him extremely ill-tempered.
Getting shot down by a Wal-Mart greeter was probably the low point of that particular afternoon. How did we as a people become so cruelly and unabashedly materialistic? Madonna, I'm looking at you. Nope, I see you, so you can stop trying to hide behind Rosie O'Donnell. Madonna, I hereby blame you and that damn song of yours for all the class struggles going on in America. You know exactly the song I'm talking about, too. It was the catchy one with all those lyrics about being material and living in a world and being a girl. I'm pretty sure it was "Like a Prayer."
As the wise game show host-cum-philosopher Confucius once said, "Money (that's what I want)." Or maybe that was the '80s rock group The Flying Lizards. Either way, this sentiment shows that Madonna is not solely responsible for our society's fixation on money, power and status. Wall Street and "My Super Sweet 16" are equally to blame. Also, the U.S. Postal Service refuses to recognize a cardboard box as a legitimate address. Then there are the upscale retailers like Super Wal-Mart and TJ's Locker that make us covet designer goods.
And alas, children only reinforce their parents' prejudices by picking on their economically inferior peers. On middle school playgrounds all across the country, you can hear insults such as: "Your momma is so poor that she was forced to take out a subprime mortgage because of her bad credit history." Kids can be so cruel -- not to mention surprisingly well-informed.
In this modern age of drinkable yogurt, Velcro and lethal injections, life moves fast. What ever happened to the good old days when we would eat our yogurt, tie our shoes with laces and watch our convicts die at a leisurely pace after several botched, messy attempts at decapitation and then a final recourse to hanging?
I guess what I'm trying to say is that society blows. That's why I think we should rally together to assert the power of the individual. Hoos with me?!
Dan's column runs weekly Tuesdays. He can be reached at dooley@cavalierdaily.com.
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