Few things chap my ass more than damned teenagers who don’t know when to hang up the pillowcase and stop trolling for free candy on Halloween.
Don’t get me wrong, I have no objection to doling out some boxed raisins or wintergreen lozenges to a 3-year old in a Ronald Reagan costume but I get pretty incensed when some pock-marked 17-year old smelling of bong water and sloth shows up at my door with an insolent scowl and a demand for free food.
In my day, teenagers didn’t harass their neighbors for unearned sweets – they were too busy holding down jobs, harvesting crops or serving in the armed forces overseas. But nowadays it seems young people trick or treat into their mid-twenties. Half the damned “kids” that bang on my door are over six feet tall, have five o’clock shadow and voices deeper than Elaine Stritch for Christ’s sake.
And, honestly, if you insist on coming to my door looking to scrounge some hard candy at least put some effort into it. These damned teens refuse to say “trick or treat,” won’t make eye contact and sure as hell don’t bother with costumes. They just roll their eyes and stick a sack under your nose while text messaging their location to other scurrilous moochers in search of easy prey. If they intend to carry on with this shameless behavior the least they could do is dress like hobos or – perhaps more accurately – petty thieves.
And to add insult to indignity, they’re pounding on my door at 9 o’clock when I’m already in my nightshirt and well past the time that most legitimate trick or treaters have already gone home, gorged themselves senseless and thrown up on the area rug.
I’d send them running with their tails between their legs but they always have an air of violence about them. Rebuke their snivelling demands and you’re likely to find your pumpkins violated, your rose bushes covered in toilet paper and your windows spattered with eggs.
Well, threat or no threat, this year I’m saying “No”.
Be advised that any damned teenager who shows up at my door this Halloween won’t be getting anything but a copy of the want ads, directions to the local military recruitment centre and a cane to the side of the head.
Happy Halloween. Now get the Hell off my lawn.
(Originally posted in 2009 but since it seems young people have failed to get the message, I thought I’d give them one more warning)
I’m pleased to present the latest release in my series of instructional guides for damned young people.
My previous instructional guide, on how to interact with seniors, can be located here.
I recently sat down with a group of my contemporaries at the Pleasantville Seniors Center to discuss the state of the damned nation. Overall, we’re not impressed.
In an effort to help any politician who might be interested in turning this country around and snatching the coveted senior vote in 2012, I am pleased to provide a brief summary of our concerns, insights, suggestions and thoughts on the burning political issues of the day.
This topic generated a lively discussion and is without doubt the number one issue among the seniors I spoke with.
We all understand there is a crisis in the sector but if you cut through the bluster and political rhetoric you’ll come to understand that there’s plenty of damned health care to go around – we’re just not dishing it out wisely.
The major problem, of course, is that there are too many young people clogging up the hospitals. You can’t get wheeled into an ER these days without running over some layabout teen moaning on about his infected nose ring, venereal warts or skateboard injury. If we weeded out the nuisance cases and self-inflicted idiocy I’m quite confident there’d be ample to time to scope my colon, tune up my pacemaker and conduct further research into the development of bionic hips.
What we need to do is issue every American citizen a $1000 health care gift card each January and advise them to budget their illnesses wisely. If one of these damned young people goes on a “bender” in the first week and ends up needing emergency surgery, anal suturing and a gross of Tetracycline, they’ll either have to suck up the discomfort until next year or pony up the dough and pay for it themselves.
Seems to us seniors that if we really want to reduce our “carbon footprint” we might want to stop churning out young people that have size 17 feet before they’re out of puberty. I can lay down in their footprints for Christ’s sake.
Their damned t-shirts require more cotton than you’d find in the sails of your average merchant clipper and every time one of these lumbering giants sits down to a meal they decimate 3 per cent of the worlds food supply.
If we’re serious about cleaning up the environment let’s forget about smokestacks and try producing smaller people – they consume less, use less energy and create less waste. If we take the hormones out of the milk supply, bind their feet and get them smoking before 6th grade we can get this planet cleaned up lickity-split.
In general, we seniors are all for it.
In fact, some of us would go so far as to suggest that poverty be mandatory for every American under the age of 30. It’s a proven fact that being down on your luck builds character and deters waste. Just look at the men that came out of the great depression – they may have been surly bastards but there’s no denying they understood the value of a dollar and a hard day’s work.
A little financial desperation would do young people a world of good – and also introduce them to valuable skills like pigeon trapping, sock darning and the ABCs of Shantytown construction.
Once we teach damned young people that there is no shame in poverty, perhaps they’ll stop trying to buy their way out of it with money they don’t have.
Like politicians, we don’t tend to worry about things that might occur outside of a 4-year window and are confident that when we finally give up the damned ghost there should still be enough crude oil floating around to fire up the crematoriums and power our escalator rides to heaven.
So go ahead and drill, mine or tilt at windmills all you like. As long as we have our sweaters and long-johns in the interim, we old folks will be just fine.
Next week, part two of the senior policy platform including issues of National Security, Economic Reform, Education and Seniors’ Rights.
The problem with young people today is that they have no respect for seniors.
When I was a lad, young people looked up to their elders. Families respected the dignity of age and every house on the street was proud to have at least one wizened granny tucked away in the attic, cellar or stashed out back in the shed.
We didn’t dismiss seniors, we admired them. We viewed old folks as walking encyclopedias and knew that once you cracked their spines and blew the dust off them they were an open book of cultural history the whole family could enjoy.
You didn’t ask your nit-wit pals to teach you how to disarm a hobo, land a wife or survive a mustard gas attack – you went to your old granddad for some common sense and the straight damned goods. We understood that age equalled experience and that until you’d had a piece of German shrapnel lodged in your spleen or walked a mile in pair of cardboard shoes you didn’t know squat about nothing and less about life.
These days though, young people have no respect for seniors – and they most certainly don’t want our advice.
Try to do the decent thing and tell some moron young person to stop dressing like a damned fool and pull his pants up over his ass and you’re more likely to get a cuss in reply then you are a word of simple gratitude. To them, seniors are just an annoyance, an inconvenience or the butt of some rude joke.
In fact, they’ve turned the whole damned notion of respect upside down.
Rather than conferring it on seniors like God intended, young people today have some ill-conceived notion that we need to “earn” their respect. Earn it? What the hell is point of getting wrinkles, age spots and a damned stoop if doesn’t strike fear into the hearts of the young and immediately command their respect?
Besides, I’ve been paying into the respect kitty for 80 years and the way I see it, the time has come to start reaping some interest and letting the damned young people make a deposit or two.
These young people need to give their heads a shake and remember that respect is like a pension: it doesn’t apply to children, adults have to work for it and for seniors, it should be guaranteed.
They have no respect for seniors. That’s the problem with young people today.
Old people and young people think about very different things.
I’ve already examined the differences between the gray matter of old and young men here but now it’s time to take a look at the ladies.
Here’s what the inside of a typical granny’s noggin might look like:
Sensible stuff, damn it.
Compare that to the disturbing brainwaves of a damned female young person:
Startling differences I’m sure you’ll agree. And further proof that damned young people are nothing but trouble.
Just because I’m retired, that doesn’t mean I don’t have a busy life.
In addition to blogging about damned young people I’m also an active member of the Pleasantville train spotting association, alternate bingo caller at the local seniors centre and write a minimum of one angry letter a week.
The letter writing is particularly important. I view it as my civic responsibility to voice my concerns whenever I see an affront to decency or common sense.
Below is my roster for the upcoming month:
Letter to all of my Facebook Friends
Asking why the hell everyone is always carping about privacy settings and carrying on as though they’re the keeper of the nation’s nuclear launch codes and Mark Zuckerburg is some form of KGB master spy.
Call me naïve but it seems odd to me that people who have no compunction about posting updates about their battle with constipation or photos of themselves in ill-fitting swimwear are somehow worried about the potential wide-spread distribution of their email address or home phone number. Frankly, you’d think they’d like the additional attention.
Trust me, most people feel they know too much about you already. If you really want privacy go home, dim the lights, pull your blinds and unplug your damned computer.
Letter to Dr. Regina Benjamin, Surgeon General
Clearly articulating my concerns regarding assisted suicide. Oh sure, on the surface it may sound like a reasonable idea but it seems to me that some people are a little too enthusiastic about the “assisting” part – especially as it relates to us seniors.
I don’t want to go to the Doctor for a mole check and end up being encouraged to take a flu “plus” shot just so he can thin out the crowd in his waiting room and make his 1 p.m. tee time. Likewise, I don’t want my greedy nephews thrusting a vial of cyanide pills under my nose every time my impetigo acts up.
This is a dangerous game and if we’re not careful it won’t take long before family are treating old people like household pets and having them put down as soon as they get cataracts, lose their appetite or soil the front hall carpet.
Letter to Cooper Toogood, Editor, Pleasantville Weekly Chronicle
This will be a wide-ranging tirade on everything from their ever-shrinking fonts to the tasteless placement of the obituaries in the “lifestyle” section to the meaningless trash that they try to pass off as news these days. Articles advising me that wallpapering my headboard will revitalize my stagnant bedroom have about as much in common with real news as Anderson Cooper does.
It’s high time they cut out all the damned fluffy bumph and returned to hardboiled investigative reporting of dockyard corruption written by whiskey-swilling reporters with decent names like Scoop Henderson.
(I’ll also be pitching my Abigail Van Buren style advice column entitled “Dear CrAbby” but given my laundry list of complaints I’m not expecting a favourable reply.)
Letter to John G. Roberts, Chief Justice of the Supreme Court
On the issue of abortion. I know it’s a thorny subject but in my view it’s time to put this discussion to rest and start focusing our jurisprudence on more important senior’s issues. Besides, anyone with a lick of sense knows life really begins at 70.
Since the country is pretty damned split on the issue the obvious solution is to consider abortion an acceptable medical procedure from Monday morning ‘til noon Thursday and a morally outrageous crime against nature from noon Thursday through to Sunday midnight. It’s perfect – nobody gets what they want and everybody gets partially pandered to. It’s an ineffectual compromise; the cornerstone of any good democracy.
(As an added bonus, those with an interest in haranguing young people can still do so; they’ll just need to shift their focus on beating teenagers over the head with placards when they’re contemplating fornication – not when they’re trying to address the unwanted fall-out.)
Letter to Mayoral Candidate Roland “Rolly” Forster
I’ll be wishing him well in the upcoming election but recommending that he tone down his rhetoric on global economic reform, climate change and foreign policy and try to remember that he’s running for small town mayor. He may wish to remind himself that his sphere of influence is largely limited to choosing the prize pig at the Fall Fair and determining whether or not the library will get a new book this year.
However, if he is serious about snagging the coveted seniors vote I’ll suggest he forget posturing about the debt ceiling and look into implementing some tough new teen curfew laws, introducing mandatory drug testing in high schools and consider bringing back police brutality.
Letter to the Editors of the Oxford English Dictionary
I will be respectfully suggesting that if they intend to continue adding moronic words like “muffintop”, “LoL” and “OMG” to their once respectable tome, they free up some room by removing existing words such as “credible”, “meaningful” and “scholarly.”
Few things chap my ass more than damned young people and their insistence on defacing our country with their moronic and subversive graffiti.
In my day, we didn’t have graffiti. We decorated our towns with American flags, billboards, bomb shelters and garden gnomes – tasteful and tidy symbols of everything our country stood for. We took pride in our cities, damn it, and would never have stood idly by while some gormless peckerhead with a sack full of spray cans defaced our streets with a combination of asinine illustrations, rude doodlings and half-baked political slogans.
If I had ever sprayed my initials on a public building my old dad would taken me out back and torn me a new aerosol – and he’d have been right to do so. The only tags we had were the ones sewn into our underpants and we made damned sure to keep them shielded from the public eye.
These days though it seems that every moron with a can of paint is free to “express” himself on the walls of the local bus shelter or spray his damned gang signature in 6-foot letters across the side of a train trestle. It’s a sad commentary that the walls of our once proud Main Streets now look like a cross a kindergartener’s finger painting and the inside of a men’s washroom stall. If these damned fools put half as much effort into getting their names on job applications or military enlistment forms as they do getting them on the sides of buildings the world would be a far better place.
But what galls me the most is that instead of rounding these hooligans up and hanging them in a public square we’re rounding them up and hanging them in art galleries. It’s disgraceful. Graffiti isn’t art! And even if it were, art isn’t meant to be splashed all over the streets getting in people’s way and distracting them from hard work and the pursuit of common decency – it’s supposed to be tucked away in museums where nobody but old ladies and school children has to see the damned stuff.
Mark my words, if we don’t stop this moronic plague soon it won’t be long before young people are entirely out of control and running around in packs spray-painting our Desotos, our family pets and senior citizens themselves. They’ll be adding fu Manchu moustaches to the Rushmore Presidents and “street art” to the frock of Lady Liberty.
The time has come to take away their spray cans, hand them some brushes and set them to work whitewashing a picket fence or two. As a nation, we’d be better off for it.