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Week #7: Baby Boomers

31 Jan

The United States Census Bureau defines a baby boomer as “someone born during the demographic birth boom between 1946 and 1964.”

As the privileged offspring of “baby boomers,” we define them however the hell we please.  Enjoy.

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Baby Boomers (Pete’s Pet Peeve’s Part 2)

31 Jan

A few weeks ago, we rumbled about our “Pet Peeves.” Since then, I’ve been living at home and have collected some new ones.  All of them involve a strange and obstinate species known as baby boomers.  Take a look.
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Boomers Love to Type like Velociraptors

Pops, please grow up and rest your fingers on the home row like a civilized human being.  Thank me.

In the words of Mavis Beacon:

fuckin boomers.
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Boomers Love Not Learning

"Petey? Petey?! PETEY!!!"

(yelled from the “Computer Room”) “Petey, how do I save this file?”
Petey ignores; continues watching Ultimate Warrior: William Wallace vs Shaka Zulu.
“Petey?  Can you come here and help me?”
“You just go to file + save, ma.”
“Just come here and show me.”
Petey stomps upstairs and helps the boomer.
“Ok, so did you see that?”
Gleefully, “Yeah!  How did you do that?”
Petey shows her again. Stomps back downstairs.
10 minutes later. “Petey, I have to save something else.”
“Do what I just showed you, ma!”
“Could you just come up here and show me?”
UGGHHHHH.

<<repeat>>

fuckin boomers.
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Boomers Love to Save Time When it Matters Least

Every time I’m in the supermarket with a boomer, this happens:

“You stand in that line, and I’ll stand in this line, and we’ll pick one when it gets close.”  They always whisper it, like we’re planning a god damn heist or something.

Then they’ll wink at you when the scheme saves a solid 2 minutes.

fuckin smug-ass boomers.
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Boomers Love Not Being Able to See Without Glasses

“Mom, did I spell roomate right?”
“Hold on, let me just get my glasses.”
“No, just look real quick.”
“No, I can’t see without my glasses.”
“Nevermind then, I’ll just go spellcheck it.”
“No, I’ll take a look, it’s alright.”
Boomer proceeds to go upstairs, shuffle through purse for full five minutes, then returns.
“So is it right?” I ask.
“You know, I’m not sure.  Why don’t we look it up.  I’ll go get the dictionary.”

Boomers also love dictionaries.

fuckin boomers.
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Boomers Love to Wear Giveaway Polos

Like these:

Can you read that shirt?  That’s right.  It says “Joomla!” Did you know that this Joomla! is a Dutch Jenkem distributor?  Neither did my dad.  But the shirt was FREE at a charity golf outing.  He rocks it with pride and ignorance.

fuckin boomers.
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Boomers Love to Discuss the Roads They Use to Get Somewhere with Other Boomers Who Use Other Roads to Get to that Same Place

“Blah, blah, blah. Route 77. Blah, blah, blah.”

A discussion about how to get to Seaview Park:

Boomer 1:  “Well, we typically shoot down Ridge Road and get onto 631 right above Washville.  We stay 631 until the crossover for 88, stick on that for about eighty miles, then we take the State Shoreway down through the Aspett Toll Plaza.  Then it’s just the Seaview Exit just after that.  Easy enough.”
Boomer 2:  “Ah, interesting.  See I skip Ridge Road altogether and get on 57, hang in the middle lane, and don’t get onto 631 until well beyond Farland Heights.  Then it’s just a short way over to 88, just like you said, except we only stay on for a couple miles, get off at Exit 14 where there’s this great pie stand, and take backroads right along route 7 until you end up getting to Seaview coming in from the West.”
“Did you say Exit 14?”
“Yep, Exit 14?”
“Huh.  I’ll have to try that sometime.”

Riveting.  Next time you hear this convo, just think to yourself:

fucking boomers.
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Boomers Love to Talk Shit*
*Especially Obvious Shit

“Honey, make sure you lock the door to the house and turn all the lights off when you head out.”
“Honey, make sure you put the key in the ignition before you try to turn the car on.”
“Honey, make sure you don’t apply Carmex with a butter knife while simultaneously wearing a blindfold and Crisco-coated boxing gloves when you’re at the wheel.  But if you do, wear a seatbelt and keep your hands at 10 and 2.”

Actually pretty sound advice.  But still.

fuckin boomers.

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Love,
Pete the Peasant

Something Different

31 Jan

So this week we did something different: we had you, the readers, vote on what the prompt should be.

As you may recall, the nominees were:
– Going to the Doctor
– Baby Boomers
– The Future

Instead of responding the prompt that finally won (“baby boomers”), I thought it would be interesting to see what happened if I responded to all three prompts in the same piece.

What follows is the outcome of that experiment…

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“Going To The Doctor In The Future Something Something Baby Boomers”

Two days ago I invented time travel. That is, on March 16, 2078, I invented time travel.

Naturally, I’d been eagerly hoping to employ this revolutionary technology for the betterment of mankind, for some extraordinary adventures—or, at the very least, for an exotic vacation. But the thing is… I’ve had this excruciating tooth ache lately, and it’s really quite unbearable, and the dentists in 2078 couldn’t figure it out, and I simply couldn’t take it any longer, and so, as anticlimactic as it is, I saw no choice but to make my first order of time-travel business the propulsion of myself into the year 2150, where surely, I thought, they should be able to fix whatever is wrong with my upper left bicuspid.

So here I am. In the year 2150. And I’m sitting in the waiting room of Dr. Graham Healy-Clay, whom I’m told is the best dentist of this decade.

I’m somewhat peeved that waiting rooms still exist in the year 2150—or waiting for things in general for that matter. But as I’m waiting here, a few things occur to me:

1) In immediate hindsight, I’ve realized it would’ve been much simpler to go back in time and implore my younger self to be more diligent with his oral hygiene. Instead, I’m stuck here in a chrome room, anxiously awaiting God knows what kind of dental operation, while a cyborg receptionist glares me down with blazing red electronic eyeballs, and I’m assuming it’s because I’m the only person in the room wearing jeans.

2) People in the year 2150 don’t wear jeans. Or clothes. They’re completely naked but are surrounded by some sort of hologram-esque projection of clothes to conceal their nethers, which is really freaking cool to see, but also brilliant because it means no one has to do laundry anymore.

3) I find it really annoying—actually downright mind-boggling—that the invention of time travel and the invention of digital clothing preceded the cure for tooth aches. How is it we can have cyborg receptionists and yet still have gingivitis? (I honestly don’t know what gingivitis is, but there’s a hologram pamphlet about it that keeps hovering in my vicinity, so I presume it’s still plaguing the inhabitants of 2150).

4) On a related note, I’m dismayed to see that the human race is still without neon pink hoverboards.

I have other thoughts, but at this time, the cyborg’s eyes have turned green and she’s bleeping aggressively in my general direction. The chair I’m sitting in is now sliding along some railing, so I gather that it is my turn to be seen.

The woman who greets me appears to be human, which is comforting.

She starts out by examining my teeth in the typical fashion. And, just like dental hygienists of any era, she insists on making incessant small talk and asking a plethora of open-ended questions, which, of course, I’m entirely incapable of answering because my mouth is yanked open and filled with her probing hands. This is all very familiar, and again, quite comforting (emotionally, that is; physically, the tools in my mouth are not at all comforting).

She proceeds to discuss the weather and current events. Global warming’s out of control. High of 115 today in New York. (It’s March. This helps explain the appeal of weightless clothing.) The colonies on Mars are really hedonistic, she thinks, nothing but orgies and crack cocaine. I’m told the “latest thing” is something called The Transplant, which involves transferring a person’s brain into the cranium of an artificially constructed body, one that’s impervious to injury and illness and also incredibly good looking. So you can keep your personality but live in a body that looks like Brad Pitt in Fight Club and functions like Bruce Willis in Unbreakable (odd how all her pop culture references are from the year 2000…). Anyway, all the Upper East Siders have been getting The Transplant recently. But apparently there’s some glitch in the reproductive workings of the host bodies, because the offspring of these Transplantees have been spontaneously combusting. 60 Minutes did an investigation. There have been over 800 reported instances of exploding infants. “Baby Boomers? More Like Baby Bombers!!” read the headline of the NY Post. My mouth-prober goes on to tell me that she was in a supermarket the other day when one of these infants exploded and that it sounded a lot like a balloon popping—maybe a really big balloon she says—and that one of the dismembered arms flew right past her face and got blood all over her apricots and that she was really displeased to have to get new apricots but that she does feel god awful for those poor synthetic babies.

When she removes her hands and I finally get a chance to speak, I inquire about 60 Minutes; just as I feared, it turns out that Andy Rooney is still on the air.

We are preparing for the operation now.

“How often do you floss?” she asks.

“To tell you the truth,” I say, as I contemplate just how much to lie, “I’ve been better about it. Probably about three or four times a week, actually, and— AAAAHHGAHGHGHG

I’m being electrocuted. I think I’m dying. Oh sweet baby Jesus. I’m being electrocuted.

And the woman is “tsking” at me.

It just stopped.

If you ever happen to go to the dentist in the year 2150, be advised: the rooms are equipped with lie detectors and high-voltage shock punishment for liars, which seems inhumane and unnecessary (and it’s unclear if this actually encourages flossing). I’m furious but at this point also very desperate about the bicuspid, so I apologize for lying, tell her the correct answer (“never”), and ask if we can please just get on with the operation already.

“Operation?” she asks.

“Yes, I’m here because I have this wretched tooth ache and I expect you to do something about it.”

“But, sir… Your tooth is perfectly fine.”

“What?!? Listen here you brainless piece of garbage, I’m in bloody agony with this tooth, and I traveled 72 years in time to get it fixed here, so don’t just sit there and tell me it’s perfectly fine.”

“No, your tooth is fine, sir. Perfectly healthy. It’s just that, well, you have a nanoscopic fragment of plutonium stuck in your gums…”

“Oh.”

It all makes sense now. I was, after all, handling a great deal of nanoscopic plutonium while constructing the time machine.

“But it’s no trouble, sir. We can get that out.”

At this, a giant robotic arm extends from underneath the chair and injects a massive needle into my jugular. I start to go numb. My chair has come alive and strapped me down. A second robot arm emerges from the ceiling and fastens two mouthguard-like molds to my teeth, which are in turn are fastened to an anaconda-sized tube, and the whole contraption starts making a dreadfully loud KKKSSHHHHing noise. It appears as if I’ve been connected to some kind of industrial-grade, nuclear-powered, hermetically sealed vacuum system. And, yes, ok, now it’s sucking ferociously on my teeth. Oh, sweet Helen of Troy, I think my intestines are being pulled up my throat.  Everything’s getting dark. I can’t help but think how horribly unpleasant it would be to receive fellatio from this device. I’m starting to pass out. The woman has stepped aside now and is texting on her iPhone 500.

Where the hell is Graham Healy-Clay??

[Blackness]

Esperanto to Bridge the Age Gap

31 Jan

There’s a growing generational disconnect between the Baby Boomers and the current class of twentysomethings (what some people call Echo Boomers). This gap stems from a number of things: the increasing use of new media, globalization, and of course the general dictum amongst most young people to espouse liberal ideology that blatantly opposes the conservatism of their predecessors. Lady Gaga’s wardbrobe certainly does not help Generation Jones’ fear of everything new nor is the image of Johnson/Nixon reassuring to most youngins. I did a facial fusing of Lady Gaga and Nixon and came up with this. Please beware.

Turtle kid likes turtles, bubble wrap pj’s and diplomacy in China. Also, turtles

Something clearly needs to be done so that Baby Boomers stop harping on stupid things like: “Can you believe that song that has the f-bomb as its chorus? And don’t get me started on the pictures these kids put on the MySpace/FaceBook/YouTube/Zune/Information Superhighway/HAL.” And Generation Me should quit incomprehensibly allowing their parents and employers full rights to view such updates as “Don’t remember anything that happened last night, but can’t find my pants and woke up with a Taco Bell chalupa in my ear/clown make up all over my body/missing a kidney. Lolz ; ).” From many an anthropological study (boy has that degree come into use now, DAD), I’ve dissected conversations between elders and their offspring to attempt to develop a thought map that makes sense to both parties so we can engage in honest dialogue.

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The Car Accident

The Conversation
Boomer: Are you okay?
Echo Boomer: Still have a bit of a headache.
Boomer: So what happened, Darren?
Echo Boomer named Darren: Dunno. It was all a blur.
Boomer: I’m not mad. I just don’t understand why you would do something like this. Just tell me what happened.
Echo Boomer: It was all Kyle’s fault. He gave me a drink that I thought was Coca-Cola, but had some weird fungi in it.
Boomer: Well, I’m going to get in touch with this Kyle kid.

The Underlying Dialogue
Boomer: You killed my baby. MY BABY! You are less valuable than my car.
Echo Boomer: Man, I do not care, my nose is bleeding from dehydration. I need Gatorade. Stat.
Boomer: Why the fuck is my BMW lodged in a Denny’s?
Echo Boomer: We were hungry and there was no drive thru. You expect me to use my legs, Dad?
Boomer: I am not mad, I am furious. The only thing preventing me from me from filicide is the shame I feel for bringing you into the world. I only blame myself.
Echo Boomer: I am going to blame Kyle on this one although I am a rotten kid. That kid’s already served a year in juvie. He can certainly do some time in prison. I’m pretty sure Kyle likes prison food. I’m actually doing him a favor. Also, shrooms are awesome. Mentally noted.
Boomer: I am displacing my anger on this nimrod. I’m going to make sure Kyle never walks again.
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The Internet

The Conversation
Boomer: How do I send an e-mail attachment?
Echo Boomer: Just click on the paperclip.
Boomer: This thing?
Echo Boomer: Nope, like I said, the paperclip.
Boomer: And then what do I do?
Echo Boomer: I’ll just do it for you.

The Underlying Dialogue
Boomer: Computers scare me. This one keeps recommending Amazon purchases. How does it know I loved my Ugg slippers? I think it’s self-aware.
Echo Boomer: This is baffling. You can operate on brains but can’t operate the internet without first opening AOL.
Boomer: Man, do I miss slide rules. Those things were ace. Ooh, I like this smiley face.
Echo Boomer: Why do keep insisting on clicking on emoticons? Have you ever purchased or used a paper clip before?
Boomer: Now that I’ve inserted the Mr. Winky, can you do it for me?
Echo Boomer: Yes.
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The Sex Talk

The Conversation
Boomer: Now that you’re maturing and I know you have urges, I’ve left a box of rubber contraceptives in the lowest left-hand drawer in the bathroom.
Echo Boomer: Okay…

The Underlying Dialogue
Boomer: For the love of god, please don’t make the same mistakes I did.
Echo Boomer: Thanks, Dad, safe sex is the way to go. And you got my favorites! How did you know? Also, let’s not talk for a week.

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So the next time you try talking to a parent or child, just remember that you’re not so different. You both probably like the Beatles, right? Eh? Eh?

– Adonal

Vote On Your Favorite Entry

31 Jan

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Thanks for reading.

Next week: Adonal’s first Extended Feature!