Tuesday, May 17, 2011
Cut Off Your Arms. Cut Off Your Legs. Let's Dance!
Kids these days.
Wait a minute; kids these days are exactly what you made them. They are saying what you taught them. They are doing what was demanded of them.
If they spend all their time looking for the wart on the Mona Lisa, who do I call to register my complaint? Not them. Who told them it's the only activity worth a fart?
If they grub around the periphery of everything, desperately avoiding the calumny that comes from honest work that produces tangible things, looking for some gimmick, some pixel they can rent or some misspelled Intertunnel script they can concatenate a life from, who do I ring up? They're texting -- their phones don't ring anyway -- maybe I'll call you.
They got a whiff of the greasy diesel smoke puffing from the locomotive of congenital obligation you've got planned for them, their knuckles still smarting from the rough justice they got for even putting pennies on the rails, and maybe they don't like it. They'll be big adults some day, and maybe think for themselves if you didn't smother it out of them entirely, and it'll be a wonder if they don't stake us all out for the crows instead of paying our Medicare.
Kids these days; sheesh. I'm going to sit right down and write myself a letter, if I were you.