Time for snobs of the world to unite

A few years ago, a reader wrote to inform me that he had diagnosed my problem.

“You, sir,” he wrote, “are a snob.”

What?

Granted, I had made fun of his favorite art form, which happened to be superhero comic books.

But me? A snob?

I beg, sir, to differ.

So I settled in at my keyboard to write an impassioned rebuttal. Then I said to myself, “Wait. He’s right. I am a snob.”

Let’s look at the facts.

I don’t watch “American Idol.” I don’t read People magazine. I don’t have a shrine to Dale Earnhardt in my living room.

I don’t believe professional wrestling is real. I don’t have one single Hard Rock Cafe T-shirt in my collection. I do not believe that Mariah Carey is a musical genius.

I did not attend the Larry the Cable Guy movie. I have never visited Branson, Mo. I thought “The Da Vinci Code” was silly.

I do not watch reality TV, daytime TV or morning TV, and furthermore, I do not think Regis Philbin has talent.

And, to cement my snobbish credentials, especially here in Spokane: I would have rather had my left lower choppers surgically extracted than attend the Orange County Choppers Tour.

So, yeah, I’m a snob, although, frankly, it appears to me that the bar has been drastically lowered when it comes to being a snob.

Traditionally, a snob was someone who belonged to an exclusive club, did not associate with his “social inferiors” and would hold forth for hours on the subject of “why civilization has been in decline since the lower orders were given the vote.”

Today, a snob is just someone who believes that “Survivor” is really dumb.

I guess it was inevitable that I would turn out to be a snob. I’m a theater critic, for crying out loud. I spend quality time with Sophocles, Shakespeare and Stoppard, which makes it hard to take “Superman Returns” seriously (although I will admit that “The Simpsons” holds its own quite well).

Now, some of my friends will scoff at the notion that I am a snob. A snob, they will say, cannot be passionately attached to fishing programs on TV. A snob cannot seriously believe that “Rocky Top” is the finest song ever written. A snob cannot own, and cherish, a collection of Jeff Foxworthy “You Might Be a Redneck If …” CDs.

Yeah, well, being a snob is complicated.

In any case, I finally demonstrated my complete and utter snobbitude last weekend while on an airport layover in Vegas (I’m too much of a snob to set foot in Vegas on purpose).

Now, any normal American would have absolutely zero problem killing a long layover in Vegas. They would gamble, shop, snarf up the buffets, gawk at the high rollers, drink at Margaritaville and catch Rod Stewart or Celine Dion.

I wanted to do none of the above. That’s because I am either (1) a snob, (2) boring or (3) a boring snob.

So today I have decided to celebrate Snob Pride. Listen, somebody has to have the moxie, the fortitude and – dare I say – the courage, to champion the cause of snootiness in 21st century America. We snobs are the only people standing between civilization and Carrot Top.

Come and stand with me. Do you prefer Mozart to Meat Loaf? Is your idea of a wild time the New York Times crossword puzzle and a cup of Earl Grey? Do you think Garrison Keillor is funnier than Adam Sandler?

Do you automatically dismiss every movie with a numeral in the title? Is your idea of a debauched weekend a triple bill at the Oregon Shakespeare Festival? Do you get more excited over a cello concerto than “Girls Gone Wild” – and I mean, physically excited?

Congratulations. You might be a snob, too. If we all march together, we can take over the Orange County Choppers and turn it into the Orange County Chopin Festival.

But we’ll leave Vegas alone. Part of being a snob is having somewhere to refuse to set foot in.