Calling widening girths! Join the Middle Age Resistance Army! Viva M.A.R.A!
Bloated men! Had enough of hearing - "he's hella old," - from a twenty-something pumped on virile condemnation? Throw the forty-year old in the dumpster is their bloody cry!
To the barricades! We forty-somethings are familiar with the prospect of a doctor's rigid digit entering the darkened passage. Now, it's time to give our middle digit to the face of youthful tyranny. No I don't want your hoody! Yes, I like ironing my clothes! Yes, I hate your app! Yes, these boots are steel toe-capped! Indeed, I'm fixated on exclamation marks.
Middle aged men - your cotton Dockers need not be the #1 reason for impotence. Your golf pals need not be the albatross around your social neck. Do not turn away in shame when buying Extra Strength Gas-X at the pharmacy. We are the generation that flies the hot-air balloon.
And looking over the world, we see what we have given this ungrateful youth lot. We gave them punk! We gave them hip hop! We gave them their pointless useless existences, their massive student loans, their climate change, their fancy bloody coffees, their helmet crushing concussions, their weird and wacky drugs, Fleetwood Mac and their laughable hipster specs. And do they thank us for this? No, they ignore everything we say!
Entitlement. That's their mantra. The only entitlement we middle agers care about is our future social security checks. It's time for the inquisition! Rack up these youthful upstarts or startups, or whatever they are these days, and put them in the stocks and throw rotten bonds at them. And then bake them in a tweeters pie and say - facebook that, you twit!
Now, where did I leave my keys, dammit? Why was I going out, again?
Sub Commandante Bob
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