We used to be a proper country, one with dignity and appreciation for the sacrifices people made in order to make it great. There was once a time when men and women would burn through cartons of Marlboro cigarettes every month in order to mail them in for a sweet red and white windbreaker. It was worn as a badge of honor.
That was until yesterday when I had the unfortunate experience of interacting with an uncultured 23-year-old who was wearing a Marlboro jacket he obtained from a vintage store, and not from smoking copious amounts of cigarettes.
“I love the 90’s aesthetic, and the colors are cool. Wasn’t Marlboro also a NASCAR thing? It’s just a good jacket for chilling on the patio in the fall. I was on the fence between this and a Charlotte Hornets Starter jacket, but this one didn’t smell like a wet basement. But $35 isn’t too bad for a vintage piece like this.”
This unrepentant rube thinks it’s only worth $35? This is a hard-earned badge of honor that came at the expense of someone’s personal well-being! It’s beyond egregious that this young man thinks he could walk into a second hand store and stand on the shoulders of giants. If the owner of this jacket is still alive, he’d likely be throwing a fit through his oxygen mask.
Does he understand the sacrifice it took to accrue that many Marlboro points to obtain that jacket originally? It sure as hell wasn’t through ripping strawberry vapes like I assume he does. Jesus, it was like looking at someone eating Arby’s in a tuxedo.
“Is it really that terrible to only wear something old just because it’s cool? I didn’t know I was supposed to do all this work beforehand but whatever. I probably should’ve bought that camouflage Camel hat instead.”
Honestly, the biggest issue I have is with whoever was selling this windbreaker in the first place. It’s unconscionable that someone would allow another person to cosplay as one’s chronically ill deadbeat uncle because it’s a “vibe”.
I just hope this kid’s parents have enough good sense to make him smoke enough Marlboro Reds to realize tobacco-based paraphernalia is earned by either grinding out enough packs to earn it or inheriting it from a relative who died from lung cancer, the way nature intended.