The word “elitist” is getting thrown around a lot lately. People differ on what it means exactly, but everyone agrees that it is a very bad thing to be called. Apparently, all you have to do to win an argument now is call your opponent an elitist. They will immediately shut up and go hide under a barrel, unless they can prove that you are even bigger one than they are.
I’m not sure I have a better handle on what makes someone an elitist than anybody else. But I will say that I now have a clearer picture of what an elitist looks like. That’s because one of them nearly ran me down in the street today.
I was biking home from work on a residential street, occupying my lane as Illinois law requires, when some jerk sped past on my left, then cut me off with a foot to spare. The sedan he was driving was one of those unfortunate triumphs of money over taste, all deep blue glazed-donut finish and way too much chrome. The kind of ride that screams “overcompensation”.
So as he sped away, I saw him very clearly giving me the finger in his rear-view mirror. This is what tipped me off. An elitist! Owner of the public thoroughfares by birthright! Granted the universal right of way by divine fiat! Just in case his driving (and his car) didn’t make his sense of entitlement crystal clear, he highlighted it with his finger.
Eloquent. No wonder he’s one of the elite.
Well, I am not. But I do know how to read a license plate. So right back atcha, Mr. SQX 169, wherever you are.