Death by Masturbation: Eulogy for an Aborted Generation
We [my peers and I] are children of the Baby Boomers. Never in the history of this country has a generation enjoyed the luxury and frivolity that we have come to take for granted, millions of spoiled fuckups asking Daddy for a new car, a new this, a new that--things we just have to have. You know...or else we'll so totally die. And Mommy and Daddy, for the most part, acquiesced. They sent us to private schools, set up shop in affluent suburbs, and kept us hidden from the painful realities of this lost, insane world. The results are not pretty, friends. Our parents have raised upper-crust drug fiends and incompetent whores, male and female alike. They have brought about a wave of societal apathy and ennui heretofore unparalleled in the annals of human history with the exception of our French brothers who made nihilism seem trendy if not essential.
But our parents did what they thought was right. They wanted us to transcend their own meager beginnings and climb further up the ladder. Dr. Thompson's Big Winner wasn't meant for them. It was meant for us. We clawed through millions of wombs so that we could grab the earth by its balls, so that emperors and kings would throw themselves at our feet and beg for mercy. We were born and raised with god complexes, the faulty notion that we were somehow owed an inherent debt to be paid by our parents, and our mothers and fathers fed into that delusion out of their own adherence to naive ideals. How could they know we were all leeches at heart? They just wanted to help. They wanted to give us the opportunities they never had, stepping stones they had dreamed of as children and vowed to provide their own offspring with when the time came.
We are the generation of squandered opportunities. Oh, we're fashionable alright. We [some of us] gel up our hair and clean our nails. We grab Mom's credit card and swipe it for a few hundred dollars worth of clothing and accessories. We went to Proms and then to universities where we spent four years spreading venereal diseases and sucking down cheap beer, which is why most of us that graduated did so with degrees in Business. Not because we like it. We just didn't know what else to do. We don't really have any passions, you see. Passions don't matter. Paychecks do.
Art? It ain't art without dick-and-fart jokes or naked tits. Speaking of which, we like our women skinny, plucked, and painted. And the women like 'em mannishly effeminate, impeccably groomed, and...with Business Degrees. Get ready for the show, folks. We aren't really people, per se. We are billboards, television ads, catch phrases, celebrities--impostors trying to approximate these ideals as best we can. Anything else is abnormal and should be dealt with accordingly. The less we have to think, the better. We'll put our nation in our government's hands just like we put our desires in our parents' hands. They'll take care of us, won't they? They always take care of us.
There will be a rude awakening, folks. For me and mine. I have my stake in the failure of this doomed, idiotic generation, and I can freely admit to perpetuating many of its crimes. Some of them, thank god, I have avoided. Soon, though, we will all go up together. We won't have a bankbook to back us up, and a whole swath of rotten greedheads will be up to their elbows in guts and grime. We will feel the lash split our skin for the first time and be forced to live like the dumb beasts we really are.
We will deserve every minute of it. We will look back wishing we'd been thrown to the sharks as children, knowing we could have had a chance. If only...