There’s a certain kind of Ivy League college graduate who is just a total wad of fuck. Usually, they come from inherited wealth, are legacy admissions, and barely had to do any work the entire time they were in school because they have never had to any kind of work. I’ve had my run-ins with these louche fucks who believe that every word out of their inbred idiot mouths is a gold coin of wisdom and not a dingleberry of nonsense.
I’m remembering a Princeton microbiology major at an Atlanta pool hall telling me how the way I was doing archival research was wrong. I asked him if he had ever crawled around an attic at a local library, opening boxes that hadn’t been opened in decades. That didn’t matter, he said, because it was much easier than his work so my problems were easy to solve and I should just listen to him. It wasn’t worth arguing with the cockflea, whose advice was worth a cockflea’s piss. I ignored him until he tried to convince my date to leave with him and then there was a fistfight and then we got kicked out of the pool hall and when someone told me he died of a brain aneurysm a few years later, I said, “Guess his work was too hard for him.”
