Historic Goofy Snobs: A Roster of Iconoclasts
To be a Goofy Snob is to walk a fine line. It is to be a master of your craft, yet to refuse to be bound by its conventions. It is to be in the world, but not of it. It is to understand the rules so well that you know exactly how to break them. Here is a partial list of those who have walked this path before us.
Michelangelo
"I saw the angel in the marble and carved until I set him free."
Michelangelo Buonarroti stands as perhaps the most audacious artist the world has ever known. He did not merely paint the Sistine Chapel ceiling—he transformed it into a theological revolution rendered in pigment and plaster, spending four years on his back in conditions that would have broken lesser men. The physical toll was immense: his spine permanently curved, his vision damaged, his body wracked with pain. Yet he persisted, driven by a vision so grand that even the Pope who commissioned it could scarcely comprehend its scope.
What makes Michelangelo a true Goofy Snob is not just his technical mastery, but his willingness to embed subversion within his sacred commissions. Hidden among the prophets and sibyls, scholars have identified what appears to be an obscene gesture directed at one of his critics, a papal aide who had questioned his work. The artist's contempt for authority extended beyond mere gestures—he routinely fought with his patrons, walked away from lucrative commissions, and insisted on working alone, refusing assistants even when the scale of his projects demanded them.
His relationship with the Medici family exemplified this tension. They were his patrons, his protectors, yet also his jailers in a sense. When Florence briefly expelled the Medici and established a republic, Michelangelo sided with the republic and helped fortify the city against the inevitable siege. When the Medici returned to power, they forgave him—not out of mercy, but because his genius was too valuable to waste. He understood this dynamic perfectly and used it to his advantage, leveraging his irreplaceability to maintain a degree of freedom that would have been unthinkable for any other artist of his era.
In his final decades, Michelangelo turned increasingly to architecture and poetry, designing St. Peter's Basilica while writing sonnets that revealed a man tormented by doubt, faith, and an unquenchable need to create. He died at 88, still working, still refusing to compromise, still convinced that every block of stone contained a figure waiting to be liberated. His legacy is not just the art he left behind, but the example he set: that true mastery requires not just skill, but the courage to defy convention, to challenge authority, and to trust one's vision even when the world demands conformity.
Caravaggio
"Without the darkness, we would never see the stars."
Michelangelo Merisi da Caravaggio revolutionized painting by dragging it out of the idealized realm of Renaissance perfection and plunging it into the gritty reality of Roman streets. His innovation—tenebrism, the dramatic use of light and shadow—was not merely a technical achievement but a philosophical statement. By illuminating his subjects with a single, harsh light source, he forced viewers to confront the humanity of biblical figures, stripping away the divine veneer that had characterized religious art for centuries.
Caravaggio's models were not the refined beauties of aristocratic studios but the prostitutes, beggars, and street urchins of Rome. His "Death of the Virgin" was rejected by the church that commissioned it because he had used a drowned prostitute as his model for Mary, her body bloated and unglamorous. His apostles had dirty feet, his saints looked like laborers, and his Bacchus appeared more drunk than divine. This was not irreverence for its own sake—it was a deliberate attempt to make the sacred accessible, to argue that holiness could be found in the lowest places.
Yet Caravaggio's genius was matched only by his capacity for violence. He brawled constantly, was arrested multiple times, and in 1606, he killed a man in a fight over a tennis match. Fleeing Rome with a price on his head, he spent his final years moving between Naples, Malta, and Sicily, painting masterpieces while evading both the law and assassins sent by his victim's family. His late works, created in this fugitive period, are darker and more introspective, as if he were painting his own damnation.
He died under mysterious circumstances at 38, collapsing on a beach while trying to return to Rome with a papal pardon. Some say it was fever, others poison, still others suggest he was murdered. What is certain is that he left behind a body of work that changed art forever, proving that beauty could emerge from darkness, that sanctity could coexist with sin, and that an artist's life need not be respectable to be meaningful. Caravaggio lived as he painted—intensely, dangerously, and without apology.
Socrates
"The unexamined life is not worth living."
Socrates never wrote a single word, yet he is arguably the most influential philosopher in Western history. This paradox is entirely fitting for a man who spent his life questioning every assumption, challenging every claim to knowledge, and irritating nearly everyone he encountered. He wandered the agora of Athens barefoot and unkempt, accosting citizens with questions designed not to elicit answers but to expose the emptiness of their certainties. His method—now known as the Socratic method—was a form of intellectual combat disguised as polite inquiry.
What made Socrates dangerous was not his questions but his refusal to provide answers. When the Oracle at Delphi declared him the wisest man in Athens, he interpreted this to mean that he alone understood the depth of his own ignorance. This was not false modesty; it was a radical epistemological position. By claiming to know nothing, he undermined the authority of politicians, priests, and sophists who claimed to possess wisdom. He made fools of the powerful, and they did not forgive him for it.
His trial in 399 BC was a farce, a political prosecution disguised as a defense of piety and morality. The charges—corrupting the youth and introducing new gods—were pretexts. The real crime was that he had made Athens uncomfortable with itself. Given the opportunity to propose an alternative to the death penalty, Socrates suggested that the city should reward him with free meals for life, as befitted a public benefactor. This was not arrogance but consistency: he genuinely believed that his relentless questioning was the greatest service he could render to Athens.
When the hemlock came, he drank it calmly, continuing to philosophize even as the poison spread through his body. His final words—"Crito, we owe a rooster to Asclepius"—have been interpreted in countless ways, but perhaps they were simply a reminder that every debt must be paid, even the debt of life itself. Socrates died as he lived, refusing to compromise, refusing to flee, refusing to be anything other than what he was: a man who believed that the pursuit of truth was worth any price, even death.
Galileo Galilei
"I have never met a man so ignorant that I couldn't learn something from him."
Galileo Galilei did not merely observe the heavens—he shattered the cosmic order that had governed human understanding for millennia. When he turned his improved telescope skyward in 1609, he discovered mountains on the Moon, moons orbiting Jupiter, and phases of Venus that could only be explained if the planets revolved around the Sun. These observations were not abstract theories; they were empirical facts that contradicted the geocentric model endorsed by the Church and enshrined in Scripture. Galileo had committed the ultimate act of intellectual rebellion: he had trusted his own eyes over received wisdom.
The Inquisition summoned him to Rome in 1633, not to debate science but to enforce orthodoxy. The trial was a foregone conclusion. Threatened with torture and execution, Galileo recanted, kneeling before his accusers and declaring that the Earth stood still at the center of the universe. Legend holds that as he rose, he muttered under his breath, "Eppur si muove"—"And yet it moves." Whether or not he actually spoke these words, they capture the essence of his defiance: truth does not bend to power, no matter how absolute that power may be.
Galileo spent his final years under house arrest, forbidden from publishing or teaching. Yet even in confinement, he continued his work, writing his most important scientific treatise, "Discourses and Mathematical Demonstrations Relating to Two New Sciences," which laid the groundwork for modern physics. He went blind in his final years, perhaps from decades of observing the Sun through his telescope, a fitting if tragic irony for a man who had seen farther than anyone before him.
He died in 1642, still officially a heretic. The Church did not formally admit its error until 1992, 350 years later. But Galileo's vindication came long before that official acknowledgment. Every time a scientist trusts observation over dogma, every time empirical evidence overturns conventional wisdom, Galileo's legacy is reaffirmed. He proved that the universe does not care what we believe about it—it simply is, waiting patiently for those brave enough to look.
Oscar Wilde
"Most people are other people. Their thoughts are someone else's opinions, their lives a mimicry, their passions a quotation."
Oscar Wilde lived his life as a work of art, a deliberate performance that challenged every Victorian convention about masculinity, morality, and respectability. He dressed in velvet and silk, carried sunflowers through the streets of London, and declared that beauty was the only thing worth pursuing. His wit was legendary—he could reduce a drawing room to laughter or silence with a single perfectly crafted sentence. But beneath the dandyism and the epigrams lay a serious artistic philosophy: that life should be lived aesthetically, that surfaces matter because they reveal deeper truths, and that authenticity requires the courage to be exactly who you are, regardless of society's expectations.
His plays—"The Importance of Being Earnest," "An Ideal Husband," "Lady Windermere's Fan"—were not mere comedies but surgical dissections of Victorian hypocrisy. He exposed the gap between public morality and private behavior, between what people professed to believe and how they actually lived. His characters spoke in paradoxes because Wilde understood that truth is often paradoxical, that the things we claim to value most are often the things we violate most readily.
Wilde's downfall came not from his art but from his refusal to hide his sexuality. When the Marquess of Queensberry accused him of sodomy, Wilde made the fatal mistake of suing for libel. The trial exposed his relationships with young men, and he was convicted of "gross indecency" and sentenced to two years of hard labor. The experience destroyed him physically and spiritually. He emerged from prison broken, bankrupt, and exiled. He wrote one final masterpiece, "The Ballad of Reading Gaol," a meditation on punishment, suffering, and the cruelty of a society that crushes those who dare to be different.
He died in Paris in 1900, at the age of 46, penniless and alone. His last words, allegedly spoken about the wallpaper in his shabby hotel room, were: "Either that wallpaper goes, or I do." Even in death, Wilde insisted on aesthetic standards. His legacy endures not just in his writing but in the example he set: that it is better to be oneself, even if it leads to ruin, than to live a lie in comfort. He proved that authenticity is not a luxury but a necessity, and that the price of conformity is the soul itself.
Virginia Woolf
"Lock up your libraries if you like; but there is no gate, no lock, no bolt that you can set upon the freedom of my mind."
Virginia Woolf did not merely write novels—she reinvented the form itself, shattering the conventions of plot and character to create a new kind of prose that captured the fluid, fragmentary nature of consciousness. Her stream-of-consciousness technique was not a stylistic flourish but a philosophical statement: that the inner life is more real than external events, that time is subjective rather than linear, and that the self is not a fixed entity but a constantly shifting process. To read Woolf is to experience thought itself, unmediated and raw.
Her masterpiece, "Mrs. Dalloway," takes place over the course of a single day, yet it encompasses lifetimes of memory, regret, and longing. The novel has no traditional plot—instead, it follows the consciousness of its characters as they move through London, their thoughts intersecting and diverging like streams flowing into a river. Woolf's prose is hypnotic, almost musical, each sentence carefully constructed to capture the rhythm of thought. She proved that a novel need not be about what happens but about what it feels like to be alive.
Woolf's feminism was as radical as her literary technique. In "A Room of One's Own," she argued that women had been excluded from literary history not because they lacked talent but because they lacked the material conditions necessary for creativity: money, privacy, and time. Her famous assertion that "a woman must have money and a room of her own if she is to write fiction" was not merely practical advice but a political demand. She understood that creativity requires freedom, and that freedom requires resources.
Yet Woolf's brilliance was shadowed by mental illness. She experienced severe depressive episodes throughout her life, periods of darkness that no amount of literary success could dispel. In 1941, fearing another breakdown and unwilling to burden her husband, she filled her pockets with stones and walked into the River Ouse. Her suicide note was characteristically lucid and generous: "I feel certain that I am going mad again... I owe all the happiness of my life to you." She left behind a body of work that changed literature forever, proving that the mind is its own universe, vast and strange and worth exploring, even when that exploration leads into darkness.
Pablo Picasso
"Every act of creation is first an act of destruction."
Pablo Picasso did not evolve gradually toward artistic mastery—he exploded onto the scene fully formed, then proceeded to reinvent himself repeatedly, each time destroying what he had built before. By the age of fifteen, he could paint like the Old Masters. By twenty-five, he had abandoned that skill entirely, choosing instead to fragment reality into geometric planes and multiple perspectives. His invention of Cubism, alongside Georges Braque, was not merely a new style but a new way of seeing, a recognition that a single viewpoint could never capture the totality of an object or a person.
"Les Demoiselles d'Avignon," painted in 1907, is often cited as the birth of modern art. The painting depicts five nude women, their bodies angular and distorted, their faces mask-like and confrontational. It was shocking not just because of its subject matter but because of its refusal to please. Picasso had broken the implicit contract between artist and viewer—he was no longer trying to create beauty or harmony but to challenge, to provoke, to force the viewer to see differently. The painting was so radical that even his closest friends were disturbed by it.
Picasso's personal life was as tumultuous as his art. He moved through relationships with a ruthless intensity, using the women in his life as muses, models, and sometimes victims. He was capable of great tenderness and great cruelty, often simultaneously. His lovers and wives—Fernande Olivier, Olga Khokhlova, Marie-Thérèse Walter, Dora Maar, Françoise Gilot, Jacqueline Roque—appear throughout his work, transformed by his vision into goddesses, monsters, and everything in between. He once said, "There are only two kinds of women: goddesses and doormats," a statement that reveals both his genius and his profound limitations.
He lived to be 91, producing tens of thousands of works across every medium imaginable. Even in his final years, he continued to experiment, to push boundaries, to refuse the comfort of a settled style. His late paintings are often dismissed as crude or pornographic, but they are perhaps his most honest work—the raw expression of an old man confronting mortality, desire, and the limits of his own body. Picasso's legacy is not just the art he created but the permission he gave to future artists: to break rules, to destroy conventions, to trust that creation and destruction are not opposites but two sides of the same coin.
Andy Warhol
"Don't think about making art, just get it done. Let everyone else decide if it's good or bad, whether they love it or hate it. While they are deciding, make even more art."
Andy Warhol understood something that the art world had spent centuries denying: that in a consumer society, commerce and art are not opposites but twins. His silk-screened Campbell's Soup Cans and Marilyn Monroe portraits were not celebrations of mass culture but cool, detached examinations of it. By reproducing images mechanically, by treating Marilyn the same way he treated soup cans, Warhol was asking uncomfortable questions: What is the difference between a celebrity and a product? What happens to art when it can be mass-produced? Is authenticity even possible in an age of mechanical reproduction?
The Factory, Warhol's silver-painted studio, was less a workspace than a social experiment. It attracted a rotating cast of artists, musicians, drag queens, socialites, and hangers-on, all orbiting Warhol's enigmatic presence. He rarely spoke, preferring to observe, to record, to let others perform while he watched. His films—hours-long, static shots of people sleeping or eating—were anti-cinema, a rejection of narrative and spectacle in favor of pure duration. He was testing the limits of attention, asking how little could happen on screen before it ceased to be watchable.
Warhol's persona was as carefully constructed as his art. The white wig, the dark sunglasses, the monotone voice—all were designed to create distance, to transform himself into a brand. He gave interviews in which he said almost nothing, responding to questions with monosyllables or non-sequiturs. This was not shyness but strategy. By refusing to explain himself, by maintaining an impenetrable surface, he forced others to project their own meanings onto him. He became whatever people wanted him to be: genius, fraud, prophet, charlatan.
In 1968, Valerie Solanas, a radical feminist and fringe figure at the Factory, shot Warhol, nearly killing him. He survived but was never the same—physically weakened, increasingly withdrawn, haunted by the randomness of violence. Yet he continued working, producing portraits of celebrities and socialites, running Interview magazine, appearing at parties. He had become what he had always wanted to be: a machine, endlessly producing, never revealing what, if anything, lay beneath the surface. When he died in 1987, from complications following routine surgery, the art world mourned the loss of its most inscrutable figure. Warhol had proven that in the age of mass media, the greatest art might be the art of self-presentation, and the greatest mystery might be the refusal to be known.
Banksy
"Art should comfort the disturbed and disturb the comfortable."
Banksy is the most famous artist whose face no one knows. His anonymity is not a gimmick but a strategy, a way of ensuring that the work speaks louder than the artist. By remaining hidden, he has avoided the celebrity trap that ensnares so many contemporary artists, where the personality becomes more important than the art. Banksy's stenciled graffiti appears overnight on walls in London, New York, Paris, and Bethlehem—political messages rendered in stark black and white, images that are instantly recognizable yet impossible to attribute with certainty.
His work is deceptively simple: a girl releasing a heart-shaped balloon, a rat holding a sign, a flower-thrower whose Molotov cocktail has been replaced with a bouquet. But beneath the simplicity lies a sharp political critique. Banksy targets capitalism, war, surveillance, and the commodification of art itself. When one of his pieces, "Girl with Balloon," sold at auction for $1.4 million, a shredder hidden in the frame activated, destroying the work moments after the gavel fell. The half-shredded piece was later valued at even more, a perfect illustration of the absurdity Banksy was critiquing.
His most ambitious project, "Dismaland," was a dystopian theme park that ran for five weeks in 2015. It featured a crashed Cinderella carriage, a killer whale jumping through a hoop in a toilet bowl, and a castle overlooking a boat filled with refugees. It was a savage parody of Disneyland, a commentary on how entertainment distracts us from suffering, how capitalism packages misery as spectacle. Visitors wandered through the park in a state of uneasy fascination, unsure whether to laugh or despair.
Banksy's anonymity has spawned countless theories about his identity—some plausible, others absurd. But the mystery is the point. By refusing to be known, he has ensured that his work cannot be reduced to biography, cannot be explained away by reference to his personal history or psychology. The art stands alone, unmediated by the cult of personality that dominates contemporary culture. Banksy has proven that in an age of relentless self-promotion, the most radical act might be to remain invisible, to let the work speak for itself.
John D. Rockefeller
"I believe it is a religious duty to get all the money you can, fairly and honestly; to keep all you can, and to give away all you can."
John D. Rockefeller did not merely dominate an industry—he invented the modern corporation. Standard Oil, the company he founded in 1870, was not just a business but a machine designed to eliminate competition and control every aspect of the oil industry, from extraction to refining to distribution. Rockefeller pioneered vertical integration, buying up railroads, pipelines, and retail outlets to ensure that Standard Oil controlled the entire supply chain. By the 1880s, his company controlled 90% of America's oil refining capacity, a monopoly so complete that it redefined what corporate power could look like.
Rockefeller's methods were ruthless. He negotiated secret deals with railroads to get lower shipping rates than his competitors, driving them out of business. He bought out rivals or crushed them through price wars, selling oil below cost until they had no choice but to sell to him. He created a network of shell companies to disguise his control, making it appear that competition still existed when in reality, he owned everything. Critics called him a robber baron, a man who had built his fortune on the backs of workers and small businessmen. Rockefeller saw himself differently: as a man who had brought order to a chaotic industry, who had made oil cheap and abundant, who had created jobs and wealth.
Yet Rockefeller was also a devout Baptist, a man who believed that his wealth was a gift from God and that he had a moral obligation to use it for good. He gave away more than half a billion dollars during his lifetime, founding the University of Chicago, establishing the Rockefeller Foundation, and funding medical research that led to breakthroughs in public health. He was a man of contradictions: a monopolist who believed in free markets, a ruthless businessman who was generous in his personal life, a man who destroyed competitors while funding hospitals and schools.
He lived to be 97, long enough to see Standard Oil broken up by the Supreme Court in 1911, long enough to witness the transformation of America from an agrarian society to an industrial superpower. His legacy is complicated: he was both a creator and a destroyer, a philanthropist and a monopolist, a man who proved that capitalism could generate unimaginable wealth and that such wealth could be used for both good and ill. Rockefeller's life is a reminder that power and morality are not opposites but uncomfortable companions, and that the greatest fortunes are built not just on innovation but on the willingness to do what others will not.
Larry Ellison
"When you innovate, you've got to be prepared for everyone telling you you're nuts."
Larry Ellison did not build Oracle Corporation by playing it safe. He built it by taking risks that would have destroyed lesser entrepreneurs, by betting everything on technologies that did not yet exist, by outmaneuvering competitors through a combination of technical brilliance and ruthless business tactics. When he founded Oracle in 1977, relational databases were a theoretical concept, not a commercial product. Ellison saw the potential before anyone else and moved faster, building a company that would become the backbone of enterprise computing.
Ellison's management style is legendary for its intensity. He demands perfection, tolerates no excuses, and fires executives with the casualness of someone discarding a used napkin. He has been sued by former employees, investigated by the SEC, and criticized for his aggressive sales tactics. Yet Oracle thrived, not despite Ellison's abrasiveness but because of it. He created a culture where winning was the only thing that mattered, where second place was indistinguishable from last place. This made Oracle one of the most successful and most feared companies in Silicon Valley.
But Ellison is not merely a businessman—he is a collector of experiences, a man who treats life as a competition to be won. He owns multiple estates, a Hawaiian island, a fleet of yachts, and a collection of fighter jets. He competes in yacht races, not as a hobbyist but as a champion, winning the America's Cup twice. He studies martial arts, flies aerobatic planes, and once challenged a rival CEO to a public debate. Everything he does is done at the highest level, with an intensity that borders on obsession.
Yet beneath the bravado lies a more complex figure. Ellison grew up poor, adopted by relatives after his unwed mother gave him up. He dropped out of college twice, drifted through various jobs, and did not find his calling until his thirties. His drive to succeed is inseparable from his need to prove himself, to demonstrate that he is not the failure others once assumed he would be. He once said, "I have had all of the disadvantages required for success," a statement that reveals both his arrogance and his self-awareness. Ellison's legacy is not just Oracle but the example he set: that success requires not just intelligence but audacity, not just vision but the willingness to risk everything in pursuit of that vision.
Mark Zuckerberg
"The biggest risk is not taking any risk. In a world that's changing really quickly, the only strategy that is guaranteed to fail is not taking risks."
Mark Zuckerberg created Facebook in his Harvard dorm room in 2004, and within a decade, he had built the most powerful communication platform in human history. What began as a way for college students to rate each other's attractiveness evolved into a global network connecting billions of people, reshaping politics, commerce, and human relationships. Zuckerberg did not invent social networking, but he understood its potential better than anyone else. He saw that people wanted to be seen, to be connected, to curate their lives for an audience. He gave them the tools to do so, and they used those tools to transform the world.
Zuckerberg's genius lies not in technical innovation but in his understanding of human psychology. Facebook succeeded because it tapped into fundamental human needs: the need for validation, for belonging, for status. Every like, every comment, every share is a small hit of dopamine, a reward that keeps users coming back. Zuckerberg built a machine designed to capture attention and monetize it, and he did so with a ruthlessness that has made him one of the richest and most controversial figures in the world.
The criticism of Facebook—and of Zuckerberg personally—has been relentless. The platform has been accused of spreading misinformation, enabling political manipulation, violating user privacy, and contributing to mental health crises among teenagers. Zuckerberg has been hauled before Congress, grilled by regulators, and vilified in the press. Yet he has refused to back down, insisting that Facebook is a force for good, that connecting people is inherently valuable, that the problems are solvable through better algorithms and stricter policies. His critics see this as naivety or cynicism; his defenders see it as vision.
In recent years, Zuckerberg has pivoted toward the metaverse, betting billions on the idea that the future of human interaction will take place in virtual reality. It is a gamble that could either cement his legacy as a visionary or expose him as a man who mistook a fad for a revolution. But regardless of the outcome, Zuckerberg has already changed the world in ways that cannot be undone. He proved that a single individual, armed with code and ambition, can reshape society on a global scale. Whether that reshaping is for better or worse remains an open question, one that will be debated long after Zuckerberg himself is gone.
Frida Kahlo
"I paint myself because I am so often alone and because I am the subject I know best."
Frida Kahlo's life was defined by pain, and she transformed that pain into art of searing honesty and unflinching self-examination. At eighteen, she was impaled by a metal handrail in a bus accident, her spine shattered, her pelvis crushed, her body pierced through. She endured dozens of surgeries, spent months in body casts, and lived with chronic pain for the rest of her life. Unable to move, she began to paint, using a mirror mounted above her bed to create self-portraits. She painted herself not as she wished to be but as she was: broken, suffering, yet defiantly alive.
Her paintings are not merely autobiographical—they are mythological. She depicted herself with roots growing from her body, with her heart exposed and bleeding, with her spine as a broken column. She painted her miscarriages, her surgeries, her tumultuous relationship with Diego Rivera, the muralist she married twice despite his chronic infidelities. Her work is visceral in a way that few artists have dared to be, refusing the distance that usually separates art from life. To look at a Frida Kahlo painting is to witness someone's inner life laid bare, without pretense or protection.
Kahlo's identity was as complex as her art. She embraced her Mexican heritage with fierce pride, wearing traditional Tehuana dresses and indigenous jewelry, styling herself as a living embodiment of Mexican culture. Yet she was also politically radical, a committed communist who hosted Trotsky in exile and painted portraits of Stalin. Her sexuality was fluid—she had affairs with both men and women, including the photographer Nickolas Muray and the singer Chavela Vargas. She refused to be confined by any single category: woman, Mexican, artist, invalid, lover. She was all of these and more, and she insisted on her right to define herself.
She died in 1954, at the age of 47, her body finally giving out after decades of suffering. Her last painting, a still life of watermelons, includes the inscription "Viva la Vida"—Long Live Life. It was a final act of defiance, a refusal to let pain have the last word. Kahlo's legacy is not just her art but her example: that suffering can be transformed into beauty, that vulnerability is a form of strength, and that the most radical act is to be completely, uncompromisingly yourself.
This is, of course, just a partial list. The world is full of Goofy Snobs, past and present. They are the ones who make life interesting, the ones who remind us that the rules are meant to be broken. They are the ones who show us what is possible when you are not afraid to be yourself.