Continuing our rigorous study of the GE environment, we move now to a less prominent but perhaps more aggressive faction of the bus – young urban professionals. Otherwise known as “yuppies.” Grab your freshly ironed suit and charge up those BlackBerries, folks, and follow me into the morass of financial injustice.
“Dude, we should pretend we’re, like, oil barons or some shit.” The laughter behind me is drowning out Ruth and Bettyanne’s slots discussion. A group of guys – all mid to late twenties, all in business attire, all cousins of Biff Lowman – talk at the top of their lungs. “Totally. Or, like, some obscure celebrities. Like a boy band. That would be soo fuckin’ funny, I swear.” Craig cracks up at this one. “Only if I get to be ‘the rebel,’ okay? You know I would OWN that shit.” After what I imagine to be a round of high fives, they settle into a lengthy conversation about what drinks they’ll buy that night (they decide to start with Jagerbombs, natch), what clothes they’ll wear (“power casual”), and what marker design is getting plastered on Nick’s face when he inevitably passes out. “You know you’re getting the penis, man. Just accept it.” I resign myself to my own situation, listening to them, and accept that I won’t get any quiet time on this bus.
Investment bankers. Financial analysts. Junior sales representatives. Consultants. I don’t know exactly what this particular group of guys did, and I don’t mean this post as an indictment of a whole cross-section of American workers. That’s not fair. Anyway, they could have been classy gigolos dressed as businessmen – I’ll never know. All that was certain was they were textbook yuppie. And for the purposes of this post, that’s synonymous with douche.
The elderly, as we’ve discussed, are all about passive aggressive torture. They like their quiet little comments, their quiet control of the cooling system and their quiet needling – whether the mark be a cute new pillow or a “fresh” young man. Yuppies, on the other hand, are all about doing things BIG. TALKING. GAMBLIING. LIVING. Every word or gesture is another chance to perform, to claim the attention of everyone around you. Accessories are important, too – BlackBerries, Trios, IPhones. Two watches make life easier if you’re super-busy. Then you’ve got – wait, Chad over here’s getting a call. “HELLO? HELLO? MARCIA I CAN’T HEAR YOU SPEAK LOUDER. OKAY. WAIT – YEAH, THAT’S BETTER. SO HOW’S THE MOVIE? YOU LIKE IT? I LIKED IT WHEN I SAW IT. WHAT TIME IS OUR RESERVATION? YEAH. OKAY. MARCIA HOLD ON (Hey, could you shut up – I’m on the phone here!). NO, SOME JACKASS. WHAT? OKAY, SEVEN. SEE YOU THEN, BEAUTIFUL.” Don’t like it? Too bad – buy more expensive, sound-isolating headphones. Yuppies just gotta shout it out loud. My GE friends were no exception, their whole conversation magnified as though on stage. I wondered several times whether they were rehearsing a Mamet play.
While I didn’t actually hit the casino with Craig, Nick, and the rest of the gang, their histrionics made it pretty easy to piece together their weekend itinerary. For your enjoyment, I present “Breakfast Buffets Are For Pussies” Or “Diary: Team Awesome Does Atlantic City.”
Hungover like woah. And spent, like, $700 last night. Whatever – totally worth it. Last night was a rollercoaster of awesomeness and we rode that shit over and over, like Disney World with no lines. Did you fuckin’ see Nick’s face? Ahahahaha. Every time – kid doesn’t learn. Then the ladies. Oh my God the ladies. This one chick… best rack I’ve ever seen, bar none. Brumsky City haha. Best night ever? Possibly. Two more to go, so we’ll see if we can’t top it when the sun goes down. A little gambling, a little drinking… who am I kidding, a SHIT-TON of drinking. This party don’t stop!!
Nick wants to head down to the breakfast buffet. Like I would do one of those. Are you fucking kidding me? Room service, baby! We’re hitting the beach today, NYC style. By which I mean WITH A VENGEANCE. All those spinning classes at Equinox will finally mean something when I doff the shirt and grease up. Taut. Glistening. Then honey patrol, full force. Stu and I have it all planned out, seriously – we’ve each got a stretch of beach to cover and a quota of ladies. Is eight too ambitious? Hahaha NO.
My mouth tastes like shrimp and cotton candy and menthol cigarettes and holy shit I just want to brush my teeth. The bathroom might as well be ten miles away. Fucking bullshit. Just me, Nick, and Stu today – Craig broke his ankle last night climbing on the roulette wheel in the main casino, then got kicked out of Harrah’s. Hotel room and everything. I nearly died laughing. Whole thing’s on my camera haha. Back to NYC tonight; work tomorrow. I’m kicking so much ass this week. GOD DAMMIT. I bump into Nick as I walk to the bathroom. He’s smirking at me. Stop smirking at me, douchehole. Like the Jersey air has made the kid retarded or something. Like he’s got – WHAT THE FUCK?!? WHO THE FUCK DREW THIS PENIS ON MY FACE!?
Re-reading what I’ve just written, I’m noticing that my “yuppies” are not all that different from “guidos.” Sleeves (at least on the GE) and a slightly more conservative use of product seem to me the only deviation. You all know people like this, right? It takes all kinds… Stop back soon for the probably anticlimactic jaw-dropping conclusion to the Gambler’s Express saga!