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The Asshats

The Asshats

The Asshats live on a regular street, in a regular town, in a large housing subdivision just like any other; they have travertine in their shower, granite in their kitchen, and ice in their veins. And–unfortunately–they might have the same zip code as you. They could live next door to you, maybe even in a house that looks just like yours. And if they do, you probably don’t know it. You could catch them red-handed one day, even, asshatting about the backyard or somesuch, but you won’t see it–you will just smile and wave, and go back to grilling your steak. You will assume they are nice, normal people, if you even bother to think about them at all.

But they aren’t nice, normal people. They are asshats.

You see, the only way that you can recognize them as asshats is to take note of the giant, magnificently trimmed hats that they wear. Well, that and the fact that they tend to eat their young. But the hats, which are constructed almost entirely of asses, are invisible to the naked eye. That is what makes them so special. This kind of specialized asshat is a status symbol (among asshats), and for the seasoned practitioner of asshattery, wearing it is akin to savoring the rarest of delicacies, or delighting in knowing the secret handshake to the choosiest of private clubs. Since asshats move up in the world through the sweat of their brow, it is rare that you meet an asshat who isn’t self-made; sure, there is the odd asshat whose rise stems from nepotism and his second-hand connections to high-ranking asshat officials, but such individuals are easily spotted and their visibility makes them less threatening to the unsuspecting citizen.

It is the ones you can’t see that you have to worry about.

Asshats are all over the place, you see. And in general, the bigger the hat, the more accomplished the asshat. But to wear the invisible asshat means that you have that something special: that you are something special, even if only to other asshats. Because true, dyed-in-the-wool asshats do not care about anybody else. They do not even care about each other, really, but they need each other to survive. Without each other, they would be royally screwed, because let’s face it, nobody else is going to put up with their bullshit. And unremarkability is essential to their strength as a group. Because it is only inside the confines of a seemingly normal, average, and unremarkable existence that asshattery can really bloom. In such situations, each subsequent asshat becomes more spectacular than the one that came before it, and the strength of the hive of asshats is multiplied exponentially by their proximity to one another.

Asshats, like alcoholics, believe in the power of the group. “I can’t. We can,” they are fond of saying.

Most people never acquire the ability to recognize these true asshats, because it takes a leap of faith (or something like faith, but in reverse) to believe in asshattery despite the appearance of innocence. In fact, once you are able to make out the borders of their asshattery, you can point them out to your friend. You can even go so far as to describe the particular curvature of the ass on the hat in great detail, sparing no 50-cent word in your depiction, but she will never see it. And if you do this, if you openly accuse them of wearing invisible asshats, people are just as likely to think you are crazy, or just an asshat yourself.

So if you’re unlucky enough catch one, then I guess you should know it is a little like being expelled from the garden of Eden. And then being dropped directly into the Garden of Good and Evil. Except the evil part of the garden is always highlighted, for the rest of your life, in fluorescent green, and the good always appears in a tiny, overly ornate serif font that you cannot read without special glasses. The good news is that, forever after this, you will know them for what they are. So when they agree to something and later change their story, or if they do something rude and pretend it was a misunderstanding, or even if they try to damage or destroy the most precious of your possessions–well, at least you know that hey, I made a deal with an asshat. What did I expect?

But others aren’t so lucky, and they can’t see them coming or going. And as a result, they will keep helping them along their asshat ways, boosting them when they are down, encouraging them when they are in need, and making excuses for them when they fail. Do not pity them, and do not try to warn them. Take it from me, the best you can do is just cross the street.

Comments (9)

  1. Kerry
    Dec 11, 2008

    So, so true.

  2. Dec 11, 2008

    I think you should be writing children’s books. Cautionary tales.

  3. Dec 11, 2008

    I’ve been a victim of an asshat. I had no idea. I thought we were friends but then I started to see the faint outline of the asshat. I wasn’t sure what I was dealing with, but he soon bloomed to the fully magnificent asshat that he was. He even managed to inflict some amazing damage my career. Now I have special powers—I can see an asshat from 10 miles away.

  4. Oh, dear God, it’s true.
    My mother is an asshat.

    pamela from the dayton time´s last blog post..wordless wednesday: with tunes

  5. Dec 11, 2008

    Reader, I dated him.

    (God, I’m glad that episode of my life if over.)

  6. Dec 11, 2008

    I know oh so many asshats.
    LOL @ asshats are like alcoholics. AWESOME!

  7. […] la la la la! I read Anna’s post about asshats this morning, and I have to say, it makes this Friday morning so much more special, […]

  8. Dec 12, 2008

    I think it’s possible to be an alcoholic, but not an asshat. I never once believed in the power of ‘we’ during my ‘recovery’. My neighbors across the street have asshats that are so large they have to take them off to get into their cars, and strap them to the top like giant asshat sombreros.

    goodfather´s last blog post..Playing hooky

  9. Dec 12, 2008

    Umm, yeah, the point was not to say that alcoholics are asshats. Given that I am an alcoholic, that would be kind of a strange thing to say, even if true.

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