Socrates and his cohort and every set of parents since have complained about the next generation being lazy, stupid and incompetent, so this rant is an old song — probably going back to when we were swinging in the trees.
“Look at that little monkey walking up on his hind legs, like he is going to be somebody someday. Walk on your knuckles like a real man, dumbass.”
Given that history, I’m hopeful that the future generation will get through just fine, but I just gotta tell you about the douchebags in my son’s generation. I don’t know if I have the dates right and they are officially “Millennials” but for this post, I’ll just call them douchebags.
These are the 20-somethings who sit next to you at a bar or dinner or in a car, mumble down into their chests so you can’t tell if they are talking to you while they check their little goddamn phones every few seconds. “Look up at me when I’m talking to you, dumbass.”
They finish college and move back home. Or if they move out, their laundry still “lives” with you. I highly suspect most of my underwear and all of my socks have done a round trip to my son’s apartment and been worn by some random stranger at least once. I’m not the only one. I hear similar stories from my cohort. Like all the parents in my generation, we love our little douchebags, and I love my kid, but there are limits. I draw the line at socks and underwear.
Here’s a list of quotes various 20-somethings have said to me recently that generally fall under different sorts of douchebaggery:
“Dad, I didn’t bring a pair of tennis shoes, can I borrow yours?” — the boy.
“I know it was my job to bring the van, but I didn’t do it because you didn’t text me to remind me, and I asked you to text me.” — a co-worker.
“I couldn’t fall asleep last night, so I’m not coming to work today.” – a co-worker.
“I left my sunglasses on the beach in Hawaii from my trip last weekend. Can I just use your sunglasses this week?” – the boy.
“Can you take me to the airport on Friday and pick me up Sunday night? I’m flying to San Franciso to wear a Santa costume all weekend, and I don’t want to pay for parking.” -the boy.
‘I can’t play tennis on Tuesday nights with everybody else, because that’s board-games night with my wife. Can you guys play Monday instead?” — tennis friend
“What are you guys doing for dinner tonight?” Translation: what restaurant are you taking me to. — the boy.
My friend, who I won’t name, (Mike Brennan) is still paying for shit for his two douchebags ages 33 and 37. “We will go out to dinner,” Mike said. “And they will pull out a credit card and say ‘Don’t worry I got dinner’. Then I look and they are using my credit card that I gave them for emergencies.”
I can only hope that before the boy hits his 30’s, I can rip that nozzle out and graduate him from his douchebaggery. I’m not paying for dinners, parking and other shit when he makes more money than me and the Bear, and that’s going to happen very soon.
Maybe if I’m lucky, he will move into the forest, take all the other little douchebags with him, and they can start walking on their knuckles.