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.