Trophies and Troglodytes

Trophies and Troglodytes

Trophies and Troglodytes
I was horrified by the sight of five, FULL GROWN, male twenty something’s sitting in a basement lounge area of a house in my neighborhood, playing video games and drinking energy drinks (define irony…could it possibly be five post-pubescent couch huggers drinking energy drinks?) while the mother of one of them was outside mowing the lawn…MOWING THE LAWN!
She was straining, sweating and miserable…and had no idea this scenario was just wrong on every chivalry based, testosterone laden level available. I was there to return one of the slackers’ backpack at the behest of my same aged son who, left to his own video gaming devices would also self-destruct.
I am a rather large, burping, scratching, cigar smoking man; I’m a MAN. As such I’d rather chew my own foot off than allow my mother to mow grass if I still had life in my body, not to mention “twenty something” life.
I called for my friends son upon entry to the house and watched as his well cultivated, hairless, pre-man boobs jiggled while he came bouncing up the basement stairs; oversized basketball shorts hanging well below his waste, purposefully exposing his boxer shorts, rounded out by his wife beater “T” shirt; the obligatory backwards ball cap covered his freshly quaffed Bieber bangs, all of which shifted in “one direction;” (wait for it.)
“Thanks Mr. Anthony, I got like a ton a’ games in this pack.”
“You’re welcome” I said. “Hey did you happen to notice your mother out there mowin’ the grass? She looks pretty overheated.”
“Oh don’t worry” he said, “she’ll be comin’ in the air conditioning soon…she has to fix us lunch around 12:30.”
I just stared at him wide eyed, misunderstanding his lack of understanding and trying to find within him the slightest glimpse of compassion for his own mother. “Oh…ok then’ I said, “gotta go.” I was pretty steamed by the time I got home.
As is getting more typical, the whole group of five had no concern, and even worse, not the slightest hint of guilt or the smallest glimpse of internal conflict. The only thing I could think to do was call my own mother, mow my own grass, break out the laptop and write a select few from the entire generation a love letter.
Dear Slacker Millennials who still think it’s no big deal;
On behalf of the generation that raised you, I’d like to extend my deepest apologies for the job we’ve done, and ultimately for whom you’ve become. I also hope to offer some heartfelt guidance, so that your YouTube laden, narcissism infused self-destruction will no longer be inevitable…please listen for the benefit of listening as there will be no awards given.
First, I’d like you to gather all eighty seven participation trophies you’ve collected over the years, including the ones you were awarded for five year old “T” ball, seven year old street crossing and the advanced technique you displayed in wiping your own asses by age seventeen; well done. Polish each and every one of them until they’re nice and shiny…then throw them in the trash, they are meaningless. You getting a trophy for showing up to make sure your feelings didn’t get hurt has been and continues to be the worst message ever sent by a generation who was supposed to love you and show you the real way.
As a result of this gross miscarriage of forethought you now believe yourselves special without actually having to do anything special, which has progressed to-without having to do anything at all.
Because of my generation, you have overvalued yourselves and are utterly unprepared to face any part of real life…and I’m sorry.
Next, you are NOT an assassin; you do NOT have a creed, and in your current state of existence you will never be capable of answering an actual “Call of Duty” with the possible exception of the bathroom (for which you will not receive a trophy). Also, be advised that “EAS Sports” are not real sports.
Gather all your video games, to include the ones in the previous paragraph, Grand Theft Autos’ 1,2,3,4 and 5 and Maddens 1 through 25 and the rest. Now stack them in a pile in the middle of your bedroom (you’ll need to move the bag of pot, the plate of microwaveable chicken nuggets, the hot pocket wrappers and the empty cans of energy drinks). Now follow along and try to understand the math.
Based on the DVD count please notice how many years of your life you’ve already wasted watching television; playing life as opposed to actually participating in it (each DVD equals about six months to a year). Now destroy the video games…I don’t care how; possibly a better use for your participation trophies before you trash em’.
John Madden will be dead soon, and while that makes me sad, it will also serve as a useful metaphor. Ask yourselves about your ridiculous need to play “play” football when you’ve not even taken the time to hold a real one in your hands (your hands are the things at the end of your arms that your video game-playing thumbs are attached to). You are fat, you are lazy, you are pampered and demanding, and you’ve not the slightest modicum of discipline, and if we allow you continue you will be destroyed in matters of the heart and business because you’ve not had instilled within you the two most important things in life which is to find God and to help and serve others…and I’m sorry.
The toilet paper just doesn’t hang there; someone has to buy it. You will derive a great deal of pleasure and satisfaction from providing for yourselves and not demanding your mother do so (her breast milk should have long dried up by now). Not having her buy everything you want at the exact time you want it may put a smidgeon of well needed pride (the real stuff that doesn’t drip self-adulation) into your lifeless souls…hopefully igniting things that may still have a faint heartbeat within you, like passion, drive and the desire to change your circumstances. These three things are the foundation of real strength, partly taught, partly bestowed; but if you harness even a glimpse of one of them and make it your own, you will have set yourself aside from an entire generation of vapid troglodytes.
You, as a group have no idea what food is…and I’m sorry.
Pizza, fries, things ordered by number and generally whole meals prepackaged in cardboard, plastic or aluminum with the accompanying microwave instructions are not food, and as such, not good for you. For the sake of saving you from the pre-diabetic state you’ve “monster drank” and “fruit snacked” your way into, just follow this simple rule. If it flies, swims or grows eat it…don’t eat anything else. Ask your mother where the “PPRROODDUUCCEE” section of the grocery store is and see if she’ll teach you how to cook. I caution you if she does, there’s another good chance you won’t be receiving a participation trophy…so think it over first; we don’t want your feelings to get hurt.
The clothes that are neatly folded at the foot of your bed when you come home from the video game or vape store don’t magically appear there. They are cleaned and folded by your mother. If she doesn’t do this, they will never appear and you will never have clean clothes. She uses those two machines upstairs in the closet by the kitchen. Those machines actually wash and dry clothing. They are aptly called a “washing machine” and a “dryer.” Again, ask your mom if she’ll teach you how to use those machines so you can clean your own clothes and become self-sufficient (also, look up self-sufficient).
Lastly, as a group, you are not disabled, but you are sincerely working overtime at becoming unable…and I’m sorry.
To that end, while there is such thing as disability income, there is NO such thing as inability income…so knock it off, and for God’s sake go help your mother mow the grass!
More to come…Call me if you need me.
Love, Hugs and Kisses,


Author Anthony J Wobbe 2-20-16

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