So back in my Seattle days, there was this guy I’ll call Ernie. Ernie was a douchebag–but not in a malicious way, in a he-tries-too-hard kinda way. He was always hanging out with this pale, meek chick who was frequently (and inexplicably) barefoot, thus exposing her rodent-like feet, so thin as to be translucent, an effect enhanced by the visible blue veins which pulsed upon their surface and combined with her white, mealy flesh to create the most unflattering shade of gray.
Anyway, this guy of hers, Ernie, was the type who always pretended like he knew you better than he did, like he was closer to you than he was, most often, I suspected, so as to make others believe that you did, indeed, like him, thus taking them a step closer to liking him as well. Being liked was important to Ernie, because he was a car salesman of the most garden of varieties, such that a handshake was little more than a gateway drug to asking if you, by chance, were in the market for a new vehicle, seeing as how he had a bead on any number of such. All makes and sizes, too boot.
Fast forward a couple of years, and this guy had gone from innocuously annoying to suspiciously rich. He and his by-then wife would roll around town in their 7-series BMWs, her albino pancake of a foot hanging out the passenger-side window as they twisted along the windy road that led to their 6,000 square foot house that overlooked Lake Washington. Such “success,” you might assume, would make Ernie less of a glad-handing, name-dropping, ass sucker. After all, he was clearly an alpha dog, so no need for the shameless self promotion, right?
His new-found status didn’t change the fact that, at least within my group of friends, he was a bottom feeder. Only now, the bottom feeder had a sweet crib, so he parlayed that good fortune into regal gatherings at his homestead where he could be equal parts host and HMIC (head motherfucker in charge). And during one such gathering, he felt it necessary to tell someone he’d purchased his residence with cash.
My thoughts? I could give a shit about your finances, Richie Rich, but I am thirsty, so why don’t you shut the fuck up and fetch me a beer. But apparently not everyone was thirsty. Some were suspicious of such a boast, like the woman who did some digging the following Monday to learn that Ernie was not only a douchebag, he was a liar, too. His house had a note on it.
Which should come as no surprise. Ernie’s certainly not the first person who confuses his self worth with net worth.