One of dad’s favorite sayings when he
saw a youngster struggle to, oh say, shovel snow off of the side walk or get out
of bed to go to school or remember to take the garbage to the curb on trash
night or lift the 300 pound suitcase from the trunk of the car or something of
that nature was, “Geez, I hope we never have to fight another Battle of the
Bulge. You guys will never make it.” The implication of course was that if we
youngsters were struggling with these menial tasks, how could we ever hold up
when the going got really tough? Ah,
nothing like a good old fashion world-wide depression, near starvation on a
daily basis and a world war to toughen a guy up. There were obvious reasons why they became to
be known as the “greatest generation.”
Like most things when the old man is
ribbing you, you roll your eyes and get on with the task at hand with a bit
more vigor.
Well once the title of “greatest
generation” has already been claimed, what is there to aspire to? The nearly great generation. 2nd
greatest generation. The had you been born
40 years earlier, you could have really been somebody generation. What? Since all the good names/name for generation(s)
have been taken, we call them mundane things like boomers. Then we just lettered them GenX, GenY or Millennials. What’s next?
Gen snowflake.
And truly if this bunch had to fight another
battle of the bulge, we better start to learn the language and customs of their
adversary. Trump wins the election and
universities establish crying rooms, aroma therapy rooms, and safe spaces with
crayons, coloring books and Play Doh where these babies in adult bodies can go
to lament Shrillda the Hutt’s catastrophic loss. WTF? I
mean seriously, W-T-F?
I don’t know who to be more incredulous
with, the college for sponsoring such nonsense or the “young adults” who actually
show up requiring the therapy.
Had Shrillda the Hutt won the election,
I had a plan that didn’t include a crying room. My plan was to praise the Lord that I was officially
part of the counter culture where relentlessly mocking establishment was okay
and expected – right up to the point where they tire of the insults and send a
harm missile through my front window. I
was looking forward to making fun of the know-nothing, do-nothing, be-nothing buffoons
who think global warming is causing the sea levels to rise when the sump pump
quits and there’s a foot of water in their basement.
The bottom line is we can take care of
ourselves. They can’t.
So anyhoo turkey day is upon us. That can mean only one thing. Big sis will be celebrating another
birthday. So if you happen to see a warm
glow over Birmingham, it isn’t the end of times, it isn’t the launch of a Saturn
5 rocket, the sun isn’t exploding, it’s the candles on the cake. Happy Birthday Sis. Another year older is better than the
alternative.
No comments:
Post a Comment