This is a topic that’s close to my motherfuckin’ heart. I love it because it begs repeating generation after generation. It’s a little bit “Poor me” and a little bit “Poor you” and although there’s a timelessness to it, it has modern day dickery plugged in to all the right places. It’s basically a free pass to be a crabby bastard just because someone’s considered “old”. Now when I say “old”, I’m really referring to someone who’s at an age where a bunch of shit they grew up with is obsolete. Fortunately, and UNfortunately for me, technology is moving so fast, I can actually claim “Old Lady Status” at the tender age of thirty-go-fuck-yourself-it’s-none-of-your-goddamn-business.
So without further adieu, I shall stop wanking words around and get the fuck to it.
Hand me my rocking chair.
Let me start by taking y’all on a trip to the late 70’s early 80’s, the era of my childhood, and probably yours too….
Come, hop on the Great Space Coaster and pop open a Tab, ’cause we’re off to the times of cassette singles and brown corduroy Alll. Day. Long. When the streets were sleazy and the shoplifting’ was easy. When kids were scrappy and didn’t take pills to be happy.
Oh snap, yeah, I just said that.
Either you know it… or you don’t.
This was a time when the biggest “class” was straight up the middle. There were no labels on clothes and Converse had laces. At the age of 7 you ran with a pack of kids whose names you didn’t all know, and like a feral cat, you climbed any tree you could find and dangled your knobby legs over limbs Too. Damn. High. You knew you’d better be ready to take on any fucking dare chucked your way, lest look like a pussy and be eaten alive. The camaraderie with your fellow feral friends was simple; it balanced on a sharp stake of which only pussies were impaled. (bonus points to anyone who caught that Lord of the Flies reference…) You’d come home each day with blackened fingernails, bloody knees, and always, ALWAYS rocked a motherfuckin’ dirt mustache.
Aww, what’sa matter Piggy? Broke yer glasses??
If you were late to come home, your mother would beat your ass before sending you out for a carton of cigarettes or maybe something alcoholic. Dinners were from a family pack of drumsticks, or a tin foil covered TV dinner. You ate it off your metal Dukes of Hazard TV tray, targeting the little compartment of the peach cobbler FIRST. OJ came sliding out of frozen cans in orange fucking cylinders. The word McDonald’s was synonymous with fancy, and you’d get real glass Star Wars tumblers with every Happy Meal.
‘Member these? I do.
Both boy’s and girl’s hair was winged, styled by the goddamn wind itself, because no matter where you were, or who you were with, you were RUNNING.
Running from those bastards on the other team in “Capture the Flag.”
Running so you weren’t the “Rotten Egg”.
Running from the dude in the candy store where you just shoved a bunch of Bazookas in your motherfucking pocket….
Damn, I LOVED those mini-comics…
How fucking weird.
You watched TV on Saturday mornings because that’s pretty much the only time cartoons were on. You dug for decoder rings in cereal boxes. Even in all this ‘wildness’, you still read books, made intricate Lite Brite and Etch-A-Sketch masterpieces, and wove potholders for everyfuckingbody on little plastic looms.
You had focus and didn’t even know it. You were driven by outdoor play and so the worst punishments were the ones that kept you
indoors. It was the same as being chained to a radiator, or getting stuck in a bear trap… you’d chew off your goddamn foot just to play until dusk.
Call of the motherfucking Wild (bonus points to anyone who caught that Jack London reference).
Even still.. like a BOSS! This is mine. True Story.
NOW, fast forward to today. Instead of running around, kids just wander around with their noses shoved into handheld gaming devices like dogs with each other’s asses. Bragging to their friends about “Leveling Up” but can’t for the life of them “Put ‘Em Up” even if their Pokemon cards depended on it.
They run through war zones, defeating opponents with hand to hand combat in the virtual world of video games like a fucking BOSS, yet whine helplessly if they have to get their asses off the couch to find the remote. If they ever do run, it’s to GameStop to preorder the newest version of ‘World of Whateverthefuck’.
Little girls are duped by marketers to worship stupid ass pop stars and configure their painted-nailed fingers into heart signs and peace signs but have no clue how many sides are on a fucking STOP SIGN. Raised by Disney, and dressed by Sketchers, they know a million and one abbreviations for words and phrases they can’t even fucking spell.
‘Peace!… and texting…and doing shit like this shit with my fingers.
Images are fast, fads are fast, and food is fast. Mix all that shit up with the quick fix pill mentality of today and what do we see? Skyrocketing diagnoses of such afflictions as ADD, ADHD, and Diabetes. I’m NOT discounting such conditions, nor am I calling them illegitimate…. I’m simply begging the question: When is the last time Johnny climbed a tree? Played a sport? Dug a hole in the dirt with a stick…? A REAL hole, with a REAL stick??
I’m not judging, I’m just pointing some shit out. Like I said in the beginning, the same children I’m calling “soft” today may be like the motherfucking Rambos compared to the generation coming up. And in turn, I bet my Granny would like to punch me in the fucking face if she read all the shit I just said here! She’s probably spit in my eye and ask me if I knew what is was like to live through a World War AND be a goddamn immigrant.
and then.. I felt like a dick.
To Granny, even in my brown corduroy glory, dirt mustache and all……
I’m still just One. Big Pussy.
I’ll gladly pay you tomorrow, for a hamburger today.