Tuesday, February 3, 2009

Back in the Day Part 2

Back in the Day Part 2 The Pussification of the Masses

It is my firm belief that we are on a downward spiral and have been for quite a while. With every new generation we seem to see society deteriorate in some manner.

Think about it for a second. I can’t speak for the women folk , but will try to generalize my argument and make it as non defendable as possible.

Our grandfathers’ generation(s) were tough SOB’s. These are the guys who were around during World War 2. They were all for killing whoever the enemy was in order to have peace. When they were done stomping the guts out of the enemy they came home and had all this pent up energy from not being able to kill anyone anymore. So they built roads and buildings, created motorcycle gangs, and raised families.

My dad’s generation was born during the war. He was 8 years old when the war ended but even he wanted to go over and stomp on the guts of the ‘enemy’. Dad wasn’t a baby boomer so he missed out on being a hippie, growing his hair really long and smelling really bad. I am thankful for this everyday. I cannot imagine a world where the Dean boys’ names would have been Earth, Wind and MoonBeam. I got beat up enough for the name I have now (at least I blame my ass kickings on my name).

Dad’s generation aspired to be as tough as the soldiers who returned from the war, but it is difficult to prove how tough you are when there is no one available to legally kill. So instead they played hockey with out shin pads, football without helmets and ran around with really bad haircuts. Don’t get me wrong – they were tough as nails. I did not know what a band aid was until my second year of high school. Anytime we got cut or broke a bone out came a rag and the duct tape. ‘Bite on the end of this stick while I reset your leg’. ‘When I was kid we used leaves and weren’t allowed to bite down on a stick. Sticks were saved for killing dinner and firewood!’ I know I was a disappointment to my father for not being as tough as he was. He told me several times and continues to do so every day. For my thirty fifth birthday he bought me a red dress and on the card he wrote – ‘To my least favourite daughter –I am disappointed that my genes were passed on to you. Wear this dress while you play in traffic. SIGNED Hopefully not your real father!’

Dad’s generation got off pretty lucky. There was money to be made if you had the brains and the balls to step up to the plate and work hard. Our generation did not fare so well. By the time we were in high school it wasn’t cool to be tough. We were asked to ‘share our feelings’ and ‘not be afraid to cry’ and ‘give a hoot –don’t pollute.’ I’m sorry but it is very difficult to be raised to be a warrior and then be asked to be a whiner. When we played sports you didn’t get hurt. You may have broken a bone but you skated to the bench. When you took a puck in the pills that was hard enough to break your cup –you didn’t cry. You ‘walked it off’ or ‘iced it down.’ We were raised to play fair but to win. No-one came in second. If you didn’t win you were the loser. But noooo! We are the generation that has to learn the metric system and ‘share.’ This sucks!

We got tagged as Generation X. I prefer to think of it as the ‘I Don’t Dance’ generation. The guys who danced were supposed to be subject to scorn and ridicule. Not only was not dancing not cool, the guys who did dance were allowed to wear parachute pants and adorn their heads with Flock of Seagulls haircuts. When did the world go completely insane? Those guys were to be labelled at a minimum and their sexuality was always to be questioned.

At least we didn’t grow up with the ‘Everyone Gets a Trophy’ generation. Little Tommy just placed dead last – here’s a trophy you fat little bastard. What the hell is up with that?
Does this lunacy permeate upward or downward? Does the ‘special’ kid who collects boogers and chalk dust get ‘A’s’ even though he doesn’t know his own name? Please tell me if I am wrong but when did ‘Hugging’ become a class, was it the 90’s?

The suckiness factor for us increases as the years roll on. When we were in our twenties we were supposed to be caring and gentle and not afraid to cry. Now, it appears that women have changed their minds-again. Women want a modified version of the Pussified male. Caring and gentle are ok but they don’t like the crying. It reminds them of their bi-polar college room mate. No, no more crying. But you better be gentle unless they tell us otherwise. And you better be caring- especially about her family.

The Pussified Male Version 1.0
Simply put, we were raised to be a wolverine but were told to be Richard Simmons by the time we were sixteen years old.

The Pussified Male Version 1.1
We get to kiss the southbound end of a northbound mule because Version 1.0 is ‘whiny and cries a lot’ Version 1.1 is not allowed to cry unless he is given permission to do so. Example – funerals for members of her family.

The Pussified Male Version 1.2
This is the soon to be updated version. Caring and gentle, No crying, housework, yardwork, vacations and any other ‘need’ the woman wants. This globally includes being non judgemental, politically correct and caring to the needs of every woman (as long as it isn’t that whore Meghan from work!)

What the Fuck Just Happened?
I went from being ignorant to being ignorant and intolerant. Why do I not get to be and say what I want? Why am I being censored? If someone is an asshole I reserve the right to call him OR her, an asshole. Queer is a perfectly acceptable word. ‘That dude is queer!’ IT fits. It serves a purpose.

There are days that I wish I could just say screw it and be a tolerant person. It’s just not in me though. I don’t say things because I am mean. I say it because it is my truth. I didn’t ask for your permission to say something, because I refuse to agree just for the sake of being non-confrontational. When and where did I miss the train that went to the place where we all have puppies and chase butterflies and rainbows in a beautiful valley? You can try to make me get on that train but I am very sure that me screaming like a little girl while you drag me up the steps is not politically correct.

My Translations
Homosexual – queer, gay, likes the same sex, dresses well and knows more than 8 colours
Metrosexual- queer, gay, has really nice nails – has not come dancing out of the closet yet.
Lesbian – female, gay, acceptable to all males as long as they are hot, in reality they are usually chubby women with weed whipper haircuts, enjoy golf and wearing sleeveless flannel shirts.
Political Correctness – plagiarized – the leftist belief that you can pick a turd up by the clean end.
Enlightened – willing to force their beliefs down others throats with fanatical zeal.

And who the hell ever said you were supposed to be friends with your parents? Thanks for that. I’m supposed to go and share my feelings with a man who only shed a tear once when he was 10 because he had to shoot his own dog? Thanks for queuing me up for that embarrassment. When we are older we can be friends with our parents- not when we are kids.

If the truth was told I think I would have preferred being brought into a generation that was more clear cut. 1950’s man or 1990’s child. I don’t want to share my feelings-they are mine so piss off. If I do cry I want there to be a tangible reason like a hammer or a drill press. I want the freedom to care about what I think is important, be it, bunnies and butterflies or big block engines.

I am hopeful that Pussification of Masses comes to end. I would like a world where we can do and say what we want and if it bothers someone that person can say, ‘I really don’t like enjoy being called a retard but I appreciate your candour!’ rather than person call the ACLU and launch a federal review of my right to say what I want.

It’s ironic that we are supposed to be open and enlightened to the beliefs of others yet we feel bad about telling our own truths for the fear of hurting someone else’s feelings.

Be honest. Be yourself.


Seattleforge said...

I'm pretty sure I could always say I was being myself.. even when it meant being alone.

Brooks said...

Oh - you were alone!