A couple years ago, I took a sociology class in college. We discussed the Middle-Class and I was more than surprised to find out that according to whoever decides these things, Middle-Class runs from like $45k/year all the way to $220k/year. Really? Holy shit.
At that point, I lost just about all hope of becoming upper class. I believe my best year ever netted me about $17k. I’ve never made much money; not because I’m an idiot, but because I’m generally lazy and don’t like people who are borderline stupid telling me what to do.
Anyhow, I have a real hard time believing that $200k a year is Middle-Class. If I were suddenly given that kind of cash every year, I’d be filthy, stinking rich. I’m not kidding, either. I think poor decision-making by the folks who make that much is what yanks it down to plebian level. Who are these folks? You got it: the Yuppies.
The Yuppies drive unreasonable vehicles.
The vehicles themselves aren’t unreasonable, if you can afford them. There are a ton of alternatives to driving the gigantic SUV with a gas-pulverizing V8, though, like most the Yuppie parents drive. DVD screens in the back of each headrest, OnStar service, big rims, great stereo, leather. Yea, all the things I grew up with!
Oh wait. Hell no. I rode around in a red Mercury station-wagon with wood-grain sides. After that, it was a sky-blue Pinto; luxury all the way.
The single Yuppie seems to need a BMW or Mercedes. The trouble is, they always get the entry-level cars, so that everyone knows they are a Yuppie. A BMW 318i? Really, honey? That’s a Nissan Sentra with a different logo on the hood. You aren’t fooling anyone. And telling someone that you drive a Benz is all fine and good until they see it for the first time, and realize that its’ a ’91 model with black soot on the rear and faded-ass paint. Oh, and it sounds like a John Deere tractor. Highly impressive, sir.
The Yuppies live in unreasonable houses.
To the Yuppie family of four, nothing less than a half-million-dollar, six-bedroom house will do; after all, where would they put the game room and the borderline-crazy shrine to their favorite ball team if they only had four bedrooms? See? The extra two rooms are must-haves. All six high-priced bedrooms are nestled into an exterior that looks just like every other house in that neighborhood. If a movie were made about them, it might be named “Honey, I Blew-Up the Tract-Home!” Real rich people don’t live in those, folks. They can also afford the house’s price-tag.
Inside these houses is where it really gets amazing. The Yuppie has a Harley motorcycle in the garage that he never rides. He has a pool table and a big-screen TV, whether he needs said items or not. That’s just Yuppie 101. Invariably, he’ll have a full set of MAC or Snap-On tools that remain shiny because he doesn’t know how to use them.
Everyone in the house has their own iPhone, iPod, MacBook, iPad, video game system, and ignored pet. Dad has sports and NASCAR posters up, while Mom collects stainless-steel appliances and imitation designer handbags.
I figure that somewhere, deep-down, they have to know that the majority of actual rich people don’t live like that. I’m not talking Tom Hanks rich, just a few-hundred-grand a year. While the Yuppie is trying to show the world how successful they are by purchasing the latest Cadillac SUV, the actual rich person is tooling down the road in a Ford Explorer.
The Yuppie complains about prices.
While the Yuppie is unloading his $50,000 SUV after a trip to the department store for name-brand clothing, he’ll complain about the price of gas. Or insurance, or taxes, or food, or bottled water. Then he’ll offer you a $4.00 beer that you have to open with his big, honking Craftsman $20 bottle-opener. You know, because buying a twelve-pack of Bud and putting the cans in coozies that say “I’d rather be fishing” is so trashy.