WHERE ARE THE KIDS?
As P+J humped away on the business end of our snow shovels on Sunday at Casa Diablo (Esteban and Bambang, the pool boys, refuse to go out and work in the snow as they are traditionally barefoot), one thought came to our minds simultaneously (as often happens around happy hour when visions of Pernod and grapefruit dance in our heads): Where are the kids today?
When your superior correspondents were ’utes, a blizzard of this magnitude was a clarion call for instant cash. Grabbing our shovels, we would be out the door and down the street extorting and exhorting every homeowner on the block to stay inside comfy and warm, sipping a large, warm cognac while we lads did the thankless task of shoveling out their front walks and driveways for inflated fees. Banking on their inherent laziness, we could turn two days of work into a six month’s worth of Pepsi and movie matinees, and maybe a new baseball as well.
From our vantage point mid-thigh in drifts, we saw no lads or lassies on the prowl for a cheap buck. As a matter of fact, we saw no children from any reasonable age of eight to 18 outside in our neighborhood, and we bet we weren’t alone in that observation in other necks of the woods. There were no snowmen being built, and no snow forts being erected to engage the enemy — Commies versus the US in those days — in a snowball fight. There weren’t even any young ne’er-do-wells out there firing snowballs at cars and running for their lives, as P+J often did, however much we may regret it today. (We don’t, actually; it was quite a thrill.) If the children of today can’t take a profound pleasure in firing an iceball into the side window of a passing Mercedes Benz with a hedge fund manager and his second trophy wife inside, what has this country come to?
Where we suspect the kiddies were was indoors, with their fat asses still in their little Geek Squad pajamas, playing video games with a bag of Doritos and a disgusting faux-colored vitamin water next to them and asking their mothers when their organic peanut butter and jelly sandwiches would be ready. And if little Junior or Sissy were to actually think of going out, they would be brought up short by their helicopter parents lest they have their little fingers and toes get numb for 20 seconds.
In the era of Generation Wuss, P+J suspect that if anyone were to get their faces washed with slush if they ventured outdoors, it would be the super-sized male getting a facial from the local athletic female teen. Still it is very strange to see all the possibilities of a wondrous winter snowfall wasted on a bunch of socially retarded, eternally texting nancy boys and girlie girls.
And to that a-hole investment banker at the end of our street with the Hummer? How’d you like those snowy Jonathan Papelbon fastballs to the windshield of your ostentatious gas guzzler when you turned the corner on Sunday? Catch us if you can, dickhead.
Oh, and happy holidays to one and all from Phillipe and Jorge.
: Phillipe And Jorge
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