I am no millennial basher. I’m married to a millennial, and, as I often point out, someone had to raise the millennials to become the people they are, so let’s stop bashing them and look at their parents.
And yes, I just brilliantly re-enforced the fact that I’m old enough to be my wife’s father. As my generation says “don’t hate the player, hate the game.” Maybe if there were any actual men in my wife’s generation, those women would be marrying those men. Alas, left with a cesspool of immature, unprepared, scared of life man-children, young women at record levels are looking older to find men who can simply life. And yes, I meant to use the word “life,” as a verb, as it seems to be a lost basic understanding of what exactly makes up living life.
Enter a recent viral letter to Dear Abby, in which a 24-year-old, unemployed “man,” living at home with his parents writes in to whine about the household chores being foisted upon him, and the lack of sympathy and understanding from the rest of the family.
If I need to explain to you what is pathetic about the letter writer, then you are one of them.
What’s more appalling is the response by “Abby,” (actually the daughter of the original) who has seen more life than most at the age of 76. I understand that she has to mitigate her responses to maintain her clientele (in other words, she has to dumb down and baby talk to losers like this 24-year-old), but Dear God, this mutant is screaming out for the tough love he’s not getting at home from his parents. Instead, Abby advises him to “review his options,” and ever-so-gently nudges him towards thinking about moving out, even if it means with roommates. Ugh. This is part of the problem; these kid-gloves we need to use in order to speak to these snowflakes who can’t handle life. Here’s the appropriate response:
Dear Overworked,
You’re a loser…and a slanderist. By using the moniker “overworked,” you have libeled all of us who actually work for both a living and around our home. What you should do immediately is thank your parents for 6 years of free room and board that you neither earned nor deserve. After that, you should tell them how disappointed you are in them for raising such a whiny bitch for a son. Once that’s done, leave and get a God-damned job ANYWHERE! As I write this, there are 7 million jobs available in America that Americans like you are unwilling to fill. Flip a burger, frack some oil, mine some coal, weld anything, and/or just get a life.
Even many millennials who are engaging in simply basic life, feel the need to be affirmed that they’re good little boys and girls.
Do you remember the old Chris Rock bit about parents who say “I take care of my kids,” as though it was something to brag about? As Rock would say, “that’s what you’re supposed to do!” We now have an entire generation of people who believe bragging about getting dressed in the morning is appropriate. What’s worse, is that they then demand to be cheered for such.
Enter the fecal trench that is social media, masquerading this week as Instagram.
Spending a portion of your weekend preparing your meals for the upcoming work week is not an achievement. It is absolutely nothing to brag about, nor is it anything anyone should need a guide on how to do, let alone fancy little pictures of what a properly stocked-for-the-week refrigerator looks like.
You are not a “meal-prepper.” You are a (barely) functioning adult human being in America. Period. You neither need nor deserve a title for having the foresight to buy food, cook it, and then store it. Since fire was invented, countless Neanderthals have gone through the very basic process of survival: Find food, prepare food, preserve food for later use. It’s literally Clan of the Cave Bear basic functioning! It is not something that needs seemingly millions of Insta-pages guiding other human swine or bragging to the same swine about how you have seemingly cured cancer in your lame world.
You are merely lifing. One foot in front of the other. That’s it.
As children, we learn to walk. As adults, we’re supposed to life. The very basic functioning of balancing work, fun, family, friends, food, and time is the adult equivalent of walking as a child. While everyone cheers your first steps as a baby, no one is still cheering at step #1,745.
Oh, damn it. I just gave some moronic parent an idea…a web page literally chronicling every single step their child takes. It will start with that momentous day when their precious little baby walks on his own for the very first time…and the journal will end…never. Now that helicopter parents have gone from hovering over their children to becoming lawnmower parents, mowing down all obstacles their fragile spawn might face, why not just morph into becoming the actual child and taking every single step with, nay for them, and documenting the entire process? It’d be funny if it wasn’t so staggeringly realistic.
