Bubblegum slavery

The Snooty St. neighbourhood of Van, BC is a sweet plastic bubble. It’s almost as if Snootyville, the whole thing meaning coffee shops, community centre, movie theatre and skinny, yuppie Snootyville Mommies walking dogs in sweaters and kids on leashes, had been manufactured in a small third world country by a nine-year-old kid. After they made Snootyville, they wrapped us up in way too much cellophane [or bubble wrap, haha, get it?] and shipped the whole neighbourhood to Canada, dog-spas and everything.

Yes sir, If you want to raise kids raise them here, but not before you shell out a million or so for a doll-house beneath the maples.

To qualify myself, I was born and raised here, so I’m a Snootyville expert. Despite the immersion in Bubble-dom I’ve kept myself snoot-less enough to speak on the subject from an objective stand-point: You see, due to a dragnet of economic stuff my family lost the house we owned here in 2002, and now we’re renting. We probably have official paper status as the poorest family within a thirty-block radius, so despite living here, breathing here, and seeing Snootyville fathers come home from ninety-hour work weeks to kiss their beautiful wine-dependant wives, I am not part of the Bubble.

There’s more to this Snootyville Bubble crap, but let me sum it up like this: Snooty St. people are very self-aware, mostly because they’re aware of nothing else, except Club Med and the latest issue of People. Everyone recycles, no one smokes, sins are well hidden behind closed doors, and every weekend there’s a baby-shower or shopping party going on. That being said, it’s not like that nine-year-old kid in the third world country who makes it all possible is aware of Snootyville either.

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