GET OFF MY LAWN
A Grumpy Old Guy Shits On the Young
Part Two of the Grouch Chronicles
Yeah, yeah, I know. Just what you need, another wrinkled old asshat gasbagging about how the world was better in his day, blah blah. We’ve all heard it before.
Well, fuck that. Anybody who says everything used to be better is full of crap. We were the numbnuts with lead in the paint and the gas, remember? We had asbestos in the ceiling. Rivers so polluted they caught fire, smog so thick it had mouthfeel. Screw the snarky old-people memes on Facebook, we didn’t “turn out fine.” We’re the lucky survivors.
The new world isn’t all bad. A bald rich guy will mail you anything you want so he can build a penis rocket and shoot fucking Captain Kirk into space. You can download porn without having to dial your modem and listen to it scream at you. When I’m feeling creaky there are a thousand channels on the TV. God bless whoever thought up Viagra. It’s a mix.
Except music. Jesus F. Christ, your music sucks donkey balls.
But now I need to talk to the boys. Like the punk in the car behind me, revving his engine and weaving through traffic. He’s nothing new, adolescent male stupid is evergreen.
It’s not that I hate young people, I want to help. I should have gone into child psychology, the easiest goddamn job in the world. Who needs training? Just watch a few nature documentaries and you’re set.
Hey kid, look. They got video of you! Or do you think your bullshit is more complicated than a bird fluffing his feathers and hopping up and down? Adults are more sophisticated, of course — your dad also worries about a mortgage and his hairline.
Today’s teen boys are just the latest crop of punks butting heads for domination of the herd. Fine, knock yourselves out. But keep in mind that “your neural pathways have not yet reached their full development, particularly those responsible for connecting actions to consequences.”
Classy, right? It’s from my kiddie psych program. In real words, it means “you have the brains of a green tomato. It makes you run around doing stupid shit because evolution decided kids are a renewable resource.”
Think about it — the village elders stand up and announce they’re forming a war party to raid a neighboring village. “The chance of survival is slim,” they say solemnly, “but there is much honor to be won!”
In other words, “Hey, we’re putting together a suicide mission, who’s willing to risk a fucking arrow in the head for a chance to fluff his feathers?” Because guess who isn’t signing up — the village elders. Their tomatoes are ripe and connect action to consequences just fine, thank you very much. So they need some dumbass green-brainers to risk their lives instead, and nature provides.
That’s you, son. Congratulations. It’ll be a shame if you don’t come back, but mom and dad can always make more.
On the off chance you’ll listen, how about rising above your animal instincts and stop driving like an asshole. “YOLO” isn’t encouragement, it’s a warning. You only live once, stop trying to cut it short. Or if you’re dead set on being evolutionary cannon fodder, at least stop trying to cut my life short. Yes, I’m fat, slow and achy. No, I don’t have a lot of years left. But I’ve still got shit to do.
I know what you’re thinking — better to be dead than end up like me. Brave words, Expendable Boy.
If you manage to survive long enough for your brain to ripen, Father Time is coming for your punk ass, too. Then that list of things you’d rather die than become starts looking a lot different. And one by one you’ll have a change of heart. Getting old sucks, but turns out it’s better than the alternative.
So you’ll slowly wither, and eventually your life will revolve around pills. They’ll keep the heart ticking and the blood pressure down, help you get up out of bed in the morning, and get it up in one at night. If that sounds like a fate worse than death, trust me, it’s not. As long as you can still pull that shit off you’ll call it a win.
Look, I know you don’t get it yet. It’s not your fault nature made you a moron. You’re still taking the short neural connections to school. You don’t have a plan, you’re just bouncing around without a fucking clue.
I, on the other hand, do have a plan — stretch this shit out as long as possible, then die overdrawn and under a woman. Bouncing checks, bouncing tits, then I bounce. Not complicated, but awesome. So keep you and your Animal-Planet-fried-green-tomato brain the fuck out of my way.
If you missed Part One of the Grouch Chronicles, here you go.
John Werth is a 12x Top Writer, but on a platform in Canada so you wouldn’t know her. He finds writing more tiring than exercise, so he compensates by not exercising. If by some miracle you have room in your inbox, consider filling it with a subscription to get his stories.
