Kids These Days…

       It’s been a nice vacation from blog land, but I guess I should write something, huh?  Fuck you.  I told you I’m lazy.

       So anyway, a fairly common theme that has been revisited on this blog a couple of times is how I’m getting old.  The hard truth of the matter is that growing up sucks.  Life is like a box of chocolates… oh, wait, that’s the worst simile I’ve ever heard.  Life is like taking a hit of ecstasy.  The first part is all anticipation and nervous excitement about how the whole thing is going to turn out.  This is your first fifteen years.  Then, the drug hits you, and you party your ass off, smoke a lot of cigarettes, maybe do a little drug-induced fornicating.  This part is the ages of sixteen to thirty.  Then, you slowly start to realize that the drug is wearing off.  Sure, you can take another tab and keep it going for a while, but eventually that won’t work either, and you’ll just be wasting time and money trying to get that highest moment back.  But it won’t come back, and the end is pretty much just a slow, depressing comedown until the whole thing is over.  Welcome to adulthood.  P.S. Don’t do drugs.

       Blah blah blah, life sucks and then you die.  End of story.  One sure fire way to tell that you’re getting old is when you start looking at the younger generation with fear and dread.  Their look, their music, everything seems alien and frightening.  The Jonas Brothers?  I don’t know what that is, but I know it scares me.  Hannah Montana?  Somebody kill it!  Life becomes an unending cycle of fear, confusion, and mistrust.  And I can’t find my keys anywhere!

       Another thing that bothers me about kids today is that they don’t do anything!  I drive down the street in my neighborhood filled with the hopes of maybe running over a careless skateboarder or two, but all I see is deserted driveways and desolate yards.  How am I supposed to yell at a kid and tell him to get off my lawn if they’re never outside?  They just took away half the fun of being a crotchety old douchebag right there!  I suppose children today have more technology and specialized cable channels for kids than I had growing up, but don’t their parents need some relief from these little monsters?  How can they possibly stay inside 24 hours a day?  Knock the Cheetos and the Playstation controllers out of their hands and send them outside, for God’s sake!  I want to hit them with the bumper of my car!

       When I was a kid, I would get home from school, and my mom would meet me at the door, take my backpack from me, and block the door so I couldn’t get inside.  As she poured another glass of wine for herself, she would leave me with the warning, “I don’t even want to see you until dinner time.  If you knock on this door, somebody better be fucking dead, or so help me God, you’ll wish you were!”  The last sound I would hear over her soft weeping would be the slam of the door and the click of the deadbolt.  Those were the good old days! 

       Anyway, I guess the kids in my neighborhood have caught on to the fact that I’m suspicious and frightened of them, because during the slim instances when they actually are outside, they are using it to fuck with my house, the little bastards.  But they can’t even do that right!

       An example: last week I was sitting in the house farting and yelling at the television, when I heard a soft thumping coming from the front of the house.  I peeked out the window to see three fat little kids sort of half-assedly lobbing eggs at my front door.  While a few made contact with the door, some were just dropping in the yard.  I excitedly ran outside with a baseball bat to start cracking heads, but by the time I got out there, they were already gone, leaving a half a carton of eggs just sitting there undisturbed due to their ADD, I’m sure.  Of the six eggs they actually did manage to throw, none of them were even broken!  There they were, resting snugly on the welcome mat (which reads “Hippies use back door.  No exceptions!”).  I wouldn’t have been surprised if the damn things hatched!  What kind of rag-armed pansies was I dealing with here?

       The biggest travesty came just a few days ago.  When I was a kid, we had this great little prank that I invented that was always great for a laugh at Old Man Futterman’s house.  We would take a paper bag and take a dump in it.  Then, we would light it on fire and ring the doorbell, running just far enough away to where we could see Old Man Futterman come out and stomp it out, getting poop all over his shoes!  Genius!  And if anyone tells you I didn’t invent that, kindly send me their contact information.  I will fight them on the spot!

       Now, this sounds like a simple gag, but a lot of work went into pulling it off correctly.  I would hand select the finest of turds from the toilet.  It had to be just the right consistency and weight to keep from blowing away and to keep from staining the paper bag, which might possibly reveal its contents to the discerning eye.  Any hint of runniness or diarrhea, and the whole thing would be called off.  After I made my selection, I would scoop it out and let the water run off so that I could avoid soaking the paper bag and damaging its structural integrity.  Then, after it had been inserted into the bag, I would neatly fold the top so as to conceal the contents and to make sure it burned evenly while it waited to be trampled by that stupid old man.  Timing was also key.  The lighting of the bag had to be done a few seconds prior to the ringing of the doorbell in order to ensure proper ignition.  The whole thing was a labor of love, and it always paid off with big rewards.

       Well, the other day, I was sitting on the couch throwing things at the “Jeopardy!” contestants for being unable to answer questions that I knew the answer to (still waiting for my check, Trebek!), when I heard the doorbell ring.  I went to the door to see two fat little monsters running away.  A hint of recognition told me to look down and prepare to extinguish a flaming bag of shit with my shoes, but to my surprise, they had just taken a crap on my front porch!  No bag or anything!  I ask you, where is the craft in that?  My flaming bags of turd were lovingly crafted with care and skill, an arduous process that made the end result that much more sweet and satisfying.  Where’s the satisfaction in crapping on someone’s porch and not even sticking around to see how they react?

       I tell you, kids these days are just lazy.  They don’t even know how good they have it!