… and an elbow jab to the ribs, a kick to the shins, and finally, a solid, booted kick to the—

—Yes, snobs are certainly trying. They try our patience and they try too hard, precisely as I have done for that pitiable pun. Everyone is snobby from time to time; it’s difficult to become knowledgeable about something and not come down with a minor case of elitist’s fever. Some folk, though, keep a year-round fever.

The disease of snobbery is, in my summation, the result of an over-exerted ego, of trying too hard. The arrogant want nothing more than to impress us with their intelligence and self-assured good taste. Well, OK, so maybe they’d like us bowing before their majesty a little more. At heart, though, all they want is for us to validate their superiority. Really—why else would someone attempt to explain meiosis to an apathetic drive-through cashier?

Rather than impressing, however, snobs earn themselves bad reps. The fundamental divide between snobs and non-snobs is this: Snobs believe they constantly have to prove themselves, whereas non-snobs would rather choke on their own bile than listen to the snob’s noxious attempts to impress. It all comes down to a difference of perception. Snobs think they’re both brilliant and awesome, while everyone else is of the opposite opinion.

My theory on snobbery is that, when snobs beget children, those children grow up feeling as though they have to prove themselves to their parents. Naturally, being the conceited jerks that they are, snob-parents refuse to celebrate the merits and accomplishments of their snob-spawn. In twisted snob-logic, doing so would mean diminishing their own snob-complishments. Below, I’ve provided a few examples of substandard snob-rearing:

Age 5:
“Oh, what’s this? You’ve made a macaroni sailboat? Very nice, darling—but where’s the artistry? I was selling watercolor portraits by age 5. Rembrandt came to me in a dream once, you know.”

Age 10:
“You say you’ve made honor roll? Oh, those public schools just hand honors out like candy, don’t they? We should have put you into that other academy—their program is much more rigorous.”

Age 15:
“You’ve lost 30 pounds? That’s a start. Now, if you can lose 30 more, you’ll almost be close to what I was when I was your age. I ran 58 miles a day, you know. Nike considered naming a shoe after me.”

Age 35:
“The presidency, you say? I’m proud…ish. I once considered going into politics, you know—but then I realized, the world was not yet ready for such a revolutionary leader. If only Bill ‘O Reilly would run for office.”

Nothing is ever good enough for a smug parent. The children-of-smug saunter through their lacking lives trying desperately to earn the unattainable validation of their parents. Viola! The pompous thus pass their brain-Chlamydia on to their children. Alcoholism is hereditary; so is being a jerk. Pretentious snots give rise to fresh, brightly green snots. It’s the Circle of Afflicted Life.

It must be a pitiful existence, fighting a losing battle with validation. I’m often tempted to feel sympathy for the affected. But once they’ve spent a half hour explaining to me why their favored political theory is the only logical choice, and after they’ve ridiculed my favorite book and sneered at my Wendy’s spicy chicken sandwich, the only sympathy I feel is for poor Dave Thomas.

And while we’re on the subject, I’d like to take a brief intermission: Thou shalt not disrespect mine sandwich. When meat meets bread, it’s sacred. You don’t urinate in a Catholic’s Communion wine, and you don’t disrespect a gent’s burger, chicken fillet, or cheesesteak hoagie. Talk smack about my mother, spit in the face of my god (even if I had one), just leave my sandwich be.

I could plead “Try it! Try my chicken sandwich before you whip out your rock-hard disdain!”—but the pompous would never listen to a lowly fast-food consumer. They’d whip that monstrous disdain out anyhow, and before you know it, they’d be covered in their own—

—Delusions. Snobs rarely have close friends. Few people can long suffer their company. Though there’s a practical reason for this, snobs have a self-serving explanation for their general loneliness. Pompous arses spin their lack of friends by painting themselves as martyrs: “I’m misunderstood. Most people are stupid. Everyone is wrong but me.” Ironically, “intellectuals” are usually the most clueless people in any given room. Go figure.

Why would someone bring a 1991 Merlot to a kegger? Why would anyone pay $18 for toilet-bowl cleaner at Pier 1 when there’s a Dollar General next door? Snobs are those oddball kids in every kindergarten class who gleefully swallow crayons and bang their heads against the plastic furniture. Like dumb kids, snobs say the darnedest things, and have no idea how moronic they look.

Unlike wax-munching children, snobs are old enough to know better. As I see it, eating crayons is wiser than paying top dollar to avoid being seen in Dollar General. Do you think a kindergartener minds where those scrumptious Crayolas come from? Snobs are surely the world’s crayon eaters, all growed-up—they’re just too busy looking down on everyone else to notice the magenta clumps in the toilet bowl.

I’ve got a great idea for a cable reality show. Each week, we find a snob. We force our snob to live in a low-income area, shop at a Family Dollar, and fraternize with the likes of mechanics, cashiers, and wait-staff—you know, folk who actually have to get along with people for a living. Each time the snob behaves in a way that is deemed unnecessarily pompous or disparaging by our panel of judges, the “contestant” receives a free tazer-shock to the areola.

Wait, it gets better: If the snob cries and/or pleads to be returned to their ego-friendly environment, we taze both nipples! Footage of snobs’ wailings are subsequently posted on our Web site. I call it Break a Wanker! (We were in negotiations to be a mid-season replacement on FOX, but Rupert Murdoch got out of bed with ‘O Reilly just long enough to nix us.)

We may never see Break a Wanker! scroll up the screen on TV Guide Channel, but we can still dare to dream. I dare to dream of a world where excessive pride is reprimanded; where grandiose egos are trampled; where parents treat their children like human beings. I dare to dream of a world where wankers get broken.

Charles Smith is a columnist for the New River Voice. He is rather snobbish toward snobs.