Wednesday, June 4, 2014

I Slob

The Colorado Civil Rights Commission recently ruled in favor of a same-sex couple which will require the Masterpiece Cake Shop to cease discrimination based upon sexual orientation.

It is at moments like these that my thoughts often turn to that eternal question, “What about me?”

“What about you?” you ask.  Well for the first time I will admit publicly, in print or any place else for that matter.

I …….am a slob.  There, I said it.  A slob.  I am out in the open and I feel free.

As a slob, I have been subjected to lifelong humiliations.  When I was young news carrier, I saved up my nickels and dimes to take my mom and dad to the old Zaberer’s restaurant on the Black Horse Pike.  When I arrived, sans suit jacket, they forced me to wear an ugly blazer the screamed, “THIS BOY IS A SLOB!”  Oh the shame, the humiliation.  

Some years later, when I ascended the corporate ladder high enough to be a vice president at a major New York ad agency, I was denied admittance to the trendy East Side watering hole, Ryan McFadden’s, because of slobbish footwear.  I was wearing sneakers while the other hotshots were decked out in full corporate regalia.  I left the city soon after.

Anti-slob bigotry is everywhere and the perpetrators are neither subtle nor ashamed.  How may places to you go where you it posted for all to see, “No shoes, no shirt, no service” or the more vague yet more evil, “Proper Attire Required”.  What is proper?  Who is to say?  The trendiest nightclubs always turn away slobs, admitting only the beautiful and well coiffed.   Wildwood, my childhood oasis, now has an ordinance against “sagging” pants.  “Hey dude, when you’re fat your pants fall down!”  Get it, you slobbist?

I know for a fact that slobbery has barred me from some lucrative jobs.  It has impeded my career advancement.  It has diminished my opportunities to propagate the species.

Some may contend that slobbery is a choice and that we slobs pay the price for slovenliness.  Not so.

I was an adopted child.  My adoptive parents were non-slobs, sharp as tacks, clean as whistles.  My biological parents were another story.  My bio-dad was an unemployed 24 year old bum who lived in his car.  My birth mom was a 17 year old dropout, the daughter of “violent drunks”.  And you are going to tell me that my slobishness was not an inherited trait over which I have no control.  In fact my non-slob adoptive family often berated me.  “Get a haircut.  Get shave.  Comb your hair. Put on a shirt that fits.  Put on some pants without holes.  You look like a bum.  You like a horse’s ass.”  Can you even imagine what this did to my self image, my sense of self worth?

They meant well but they could not accept me for who I am, for what I am, a slob.  Twelve years of Catholic school jacket and tie could not change me.

But who speaks out for the slob?  Who has our backs?  Who is making sure that we get our fair share of the good jobs, the best seats at restaurants and dance clubs, the hottest dates?

Where is the Al Sharpton (no slob he) of slobdom?  Where are the Slob Pride, the Slob Power leaders?  Sadly the slob stands alone.  We are the untouchables that the beautiful people pretend not to see.  The last unprotected minority.  The new invisible man.

Who will step up to the plate for our side?  I dunno, maybe this guy.  

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