Yes, you have tried to understand them but they're weird and wacko. You've tried to relate to them but they're almost like aliens from an ugly, bizarre, brown dwarf star . . . .
In your young wisdom, you are just now discovering how the Flower Power - Free Love & Free Sex turned 'Me! Me! Me!' generation didn't generate much for you.
You're feeling unplugged, no doubt.
You're running out of gas. So is your world.
Sometimes you just want to find a dead end street and cry for a long time.
Well, not all is lost yet. So suck it in, stick it out young'uns - they're the babies, you're the super-hero generations of X, Y, Z!
Oh, and let's not forget 'Generation Next' and all those other ridiculous tags the Big Brother Generation of Baby Boomers has tagged you and yours with!
"When I was young we were so poor that when the empty gas years of Jimmy Carter's saintly benevolence and Billy Beer were upon us, it was the best of times and the worst of times all rolled up into one big, brightly painted piñata!!! Of course, you kids were probably still in the oven at the time," - Yep, you kids obviously heard this line before, along with many others. I'm sure you've heard these sour grapes telling you how easy you have it today. Compared to them, your life is one big piece of coconut cream pie on the glittery, delectable, neon-soaked, buffet table of the Good Ship Lollipop.
Don't buy what these Baby Boomers are attempting to sell you. It's nothing more than a verbiage-cluttered chef's salad of lies, misery, and downhome debauchery.
A POSSIBLE REAL-CASE SCENARIO: You and your date are waiting in line at the movie theater. You and your significant other are in no mood to debate politics with jackasses, magpies, misfits, drones, derelicts, and ingrates. But despite your quest for solitude and serenity, some bristled-nose-haired; yellow-toothed; balding; morbidly obese Baby Boomer behind you gripes, "Hell, back in the day, as children, we used to bake mud pies and eat them. You brats just make mud pies and throw them at each other!"
Or: "We were so poor we ate chicken feathers after we had our fried tree branches and refried, shaked & baked, insect larvae," you hear the Baby Boomer behind you say. You look his way. He has some really drippy, hang-dogged-sorry look suitable for a UNICEF poster . . . .
Well, don't sympathize or empathize with them. And don't you dare look directly into their eyes - you might as well look into the eyes of a gape-mouthed, swirling, venomous King Cobra.
ANOTHER POSSIBLE SCENARIO INVOLVING A MISFIT DUO OF BABY BOOMERS: "About once every couple of years, we hit the jackpot and had enough pennies and nickels collected to buy a chicken. Sometimes there wasn't even a raggedy ole broiler or roasted chicken at the meat market. We were forced to buy and cook finches and sparrows."
And your date calmly whispers in a pathetic tone: "It's a lot like being wired into an iPOD that's transmitting the sour sounds from an erupting volcano or a ship that's sinking that's filled with wild zoo animals that know they're all about to drown."
Yes, that sad droning melancholy of self-absorbed rue continues. By this time you are clenching your teeth with loathing and intolerance. Despite your deep sighs of excruciating mental torture, the babbling dipshit couple directly behind you and your very, very attractive, intelligent and ultra-talented date vociferously continue down their stray, pack-mule posse' of jackass-inspired commentary: "It was like eating ants and termites on a stick!" - Yes, they actually have the audacity of screaming this remark which they obviously consider a profundity.
Bewildered, you turn to see what all this commotion is about.
"What?" you ask the drooling duo of drips.
Mr. Baby Boomer's mate looks exactly like the wanna-be actor/sales lady on the infomercial you blearily witnessed after insomnia crushed you last night between 2 and 3 in the wee. Sure, she might have been pretty, maybe even a knockout, thirty or forty years ago. Now, however, she's a sagging boozehound and the lines of her face appear to be a topographical roadmap of a country in the Andes.
- Are all these Baby Boomers lying?
- Bulls eye, wise guy.
Face it, when you're middle aged, with limp genitalia and you're driving a Lexus, Jaguar, Mercedes, Audi or a BMW, it's quite comforting to think back on the days before you bought this sleek, stylish, sophisticated, $90,000 sedan. The days of milk and honey were always preceded by long decades of sulfuric-acid-rain typhoons and sea-lion-shit milkshakes. And a lot of these Baby Boomer morons now brag of how they were awarded the Silver Star while fighting with the Marines or Army in Vietnam, when actually they were smoking marijuana and dropping LSD in some hippy yippy commune in Up-To-Your-Neck-In-Snow, Canada.
Chances are, at least these bottom-feeding former flower children will get to ride the Social Security train when they are old and gray. You, young-un, will be shoveling re-burned coal into a globally warmed oven when you're too frail and elderly to walk or talk. You'll be working your little ass off at age 70 for peanuts because virtually every resource from the Earth was hastily and greedily sucked up by this generation of worthless users and losers. Your offspring will be growing mutated extra limbs, heads, and perhaps even a scaled or feathered set of ugly tails. And it's all because the Baby Boomer generation left a future of nothing but stark times of horrible, harrowing, brazenly-burning-radiation, bleakness, and sorrow. Your sun will not be yellow and shining, but black and dreary - nothing more than a black dwarf! When you vacation in Florida in the winter, be ready for the 160-degree blazing heat of a radioactive anomaly in your purple and green sky! But be sure to smell the radioactive flowers!
Yes, this is the spoiled generation of Woodstock, Timothy Leary, Alan Ginsberg and the Beat Poets, Flower Power, LSD, dropping out & dripping around, the great migration of the draft-dodging hordes to Canada, free sex & free love, and the Haight-Ashbury extravagant fiasco. Oh, and let's not forget roaming around North and South America in a VW bus shaped like a banana and painted with big purple and pink flowers. Yep, with seven or eight other longhairs who haven't bathed for three months, life was one big party. This is the Baby Boomers' legacy: it's all nothing more than meaningless drivel that doesn't amount to three bad pennies these days. Thank goodness this mess is over! The Baby Boomers' youthful days turned out to be nothing more than musical, lyrical, hyper-stinking dog shit.
"We are dealing with the best-educated generation in history. But they've got a brain dressed up with nowhere to go." - Who said that, Richard M. Nixon? Richard the Lion Hearted? Richard Pryor? Little Richard? Keith Richards? Richard Burton? Denise Richards?
No! Hell no! None of these celebs said anything like this. It was Timothy Leary who actually said this. The same schizoid psychologist who advocated that the entire world should be pumped up on LSD and psilocybin. That same overly educated Harvard moron who quipped, "There are three side effects of acid: enhanced, long-term memory, decreased short-term memory, and I forget the third." Well I'll remind the very dead Timothy Leary that the third side effect might just be "Being chained to a post in a state mental hospital for the rest of your days because you overdosed on too many hits of blotter acid. Now you're foaming at the mouth and you're dribbling saliva all over your filthy blue gown. The chemicals in your brain are glued together so tight that you haven't slept in 10 to 20 years. You can thank Timothy Leary for your sad-assed state of mind and body! Let's all say it now, THANKS TIMMY! WE'RE ALL SO LEARY!
Richard M. Nixon once said that Timothy Leary "is the most dangerous man in America." Well, a lot of Americans at the time thought the most dangerous man in America was, in fact, Richard M. Nixon, but Timothy Leary was definitely a very close second. No contest. The jury's out on this one.
Your typical privileged, affluent, highly educated Baby Boomer had his college tuition paid for by the government, even if he came from a family of millionaires. And if his family had any clout at all, he could probably even get out of fighting in a zero-sum jungle war in a little patch of swamp in Bum Fucked, Indochina if he wanted to.
Yes, and today he's living in a half a bazillion dollar home, is driving a Mercedes, and his wife is two years younger than you are, Young One, and your facial hair is still coming in. So don't let these Baby Boomers put flora and fauna in your hair and refer to you as a "hippy" or a "yippy." Got that?!
YET ANOTHER SCENARIO: It seems like the whole fat, oblong world is lying on your shoulders. You are overly tired because your Baby Boomer Jackass of a Boss is too inept to do his own job, and you were forced to do yours, his, and all the workers who punched-in, and sometime in the vicinity of eight hours later, expeditiously punched out.
They left after standing around the water cooler and making jokes during most of the workday.
Why party hearty when you're off the clock when you can do the same when you're on the clock? That's the mentality of these privileged Baby Boomers.
But you're company loyal. And sadly, it's bound to be yet another night of hellish labor because your Baby Boomerang Boss from Bozo-Land just can't muster enough grit to manage and discipline his underlings. Shit, a pair of twins in a maternity ward would be a handful for this mental-masturbating epitome of impotence.
It's late. Very late. Nobody's in the building except you and the bats in the attic. You think you hear a wolf cry in the distance. You think you hear the voices of the never-ever-land-of-punched-tickets-from-and-to-nowhere beckoning. Every river is dry. Every canyon you transcendentally tried to cross is right here, right now, and it's all leading to nowhere. The entire landscape is miserably and miserly covered with craggy peaks. They're as nasty and mean-looking as Vinson Massif, Denali or the Matterhorn.
Later, you get off and you and your date can finally see a movie. It's the 3 a.m. last showing. The line at the Movieplex 15 Screen Gigantaplex grows longer and you are desperately seeking Susan, trying to get away from these mumbling numbskulls, these bombastic Baby Boomers. You and your date are still wanting to see the movie. What are these Baby Boomers doing here! Don't they ever sleep! However, reality hits and you accept the haunting facts for what they are: that Baby Boomer Ocean of Obnoxiousness has left you hanging by the neck, choking and flopping around.
It's nothing new to you. Most of the time when you're happy and free, some miscreant Baby Boomer saunters along and figuratively chains you to a burning tree.
After a while you and your date don't give a damn what anyone thinks. You don't want to hurt anybody's feelings, but you also don't want to dry dock the evening into a down-spiraling mess of ennui and angst brought on by Baby Boomers. Meantime, Mr. Mighty Mole and Miss Humble Pie (Baby Boomer) scream at your back: "The chicken feathers mixed in with honey makes for a great little after dinner treat! We used to call it ice cream without the ice or the cream."
You and your date realize you're not going to let this very unpleasant scenario ruin your evening. You suck it in, stick it out and have a wonderful time. The conversation piece: the Baby Boom Brigade. Ah, you laugh for hours recounting experience upon experience that this generation of begging, braggadocios, beagle hounds - this vast ocean of Baby Boomerang Boom Boxes - has have left for you and your generation.
Sometimes the more things change, the more they change.
- So don't believe a thing these Baby Boomer frauds say about the "good ole times of the bad'ole days."
- Don't bother throwing pearls before swine - just eliminate the absurdist play called, "Man, Did I Have it Tough Way Back When - Us Baby Boomers really had it tough!"
And Holy Schamolies, my nubile young friends, if you find yourself talking to some crazy-eyed wino guy hanging out in the back of the alley of your town's VFW club who looks to be in his mid-50s to late-60s and he claims to have received the Congressional Medal of Honor for saving his whole Army Battalion in 'Nam, and you've heard from several legitimate sources that this four-star fraud went on the world's longest fishing trip to Canada in the sixties and seventies, tell him this, 'What kind of fish story are you telling me?!!! Are you saying you caught a whole battalion' of walleye, crappie and perch?!"
That'll surely get his goat. And if it doesn't, call him a "GOAT."