Filthie's Mobile Fortress Of Solitude

Filthie's Mobile Fortress Of Solitude
Where Great Intelligence Goes To Be Insulted

Wednesday, 3 May 2017

Damned Kids These Days...

Grumpy old farts have ALWAYS been ranting and railing about how the fuggin kids these days ain't worth a hill a beans! When I was a small boy in elementary school we had two old harridans from the Dirty Thirties Depression era that went 'full remedial' on our asses and we hated them intensely for it at the time. We thought they were terrible old bitches for insisting on scholastic performance, manners and discipline in the class room. One of them seriously questioned my abilities as a student and made no secret of her belief that I was a retard in need of special edyacashun. (Can't imagine why she thunk that). The other old bint had me getting honours the very next year so who knows? Every teacher I had after that was pretty much a union pooch screwer that just passed kids through the scholastic system without giving a hoot about them.

Our elders were completely disgusted with us the same way I am with the so-called Millennials or the 'snow flake generation'. If things were going for a shit when I was a kid back in the 70's and early 80's (and they were, no doubt about it) - it boggles the mind to think of how bad the next generation is going to be. It's said that Millennials aren't reproducing and from my vantage point as the parent of one - all I can say is that that is probably for the best!

Look at this kid. He grew up with Gorges Grouse back in the 50's and 60's.

I don't think me or any one of my peers in my generation could hold a candle to that man. There is no doubt in my mind whatsoever that he was raised by better people in better times. Yes, I know there are any number of current servicemen and women making us proud of our kids today. But there are literally megatons of crap like this below going on today too!

I learned a new word today: 'gunt'. I'll leave it to you to figure out
what that means.

We're three generations deep into feminism and feminized men and masculinized men. I've been picking on women for the last couple of posts but the fellas are just as bad - a trip by Chateau Heartiste produces gems like this:

Be careful that ya don't look in the mirror, Heartiste. You might not like
what you younger men see staring back at ya... nice vocals BTW...

Meet the Modern Man.

Make jokes all ya want, but for a significant portion of the population, guys like this are the epitome of the modern man. If you don't think so - screw you and your toxic masculinity!!! I suppose I shouldn't be ragging on your kids considering how mine turned out - but from my vantage point as an obsolete fossil... yeah, I do think it's time to start worrying about our kids and doing something about it. It may be too late.

I don't think I am a grumpy old man bitching about the younger generation just for the hell of it. I think we are in serious trouble when guys like Pajama Boy are the norm and they're voting for cretins like Obama, Hillary, or Turdo La Doo here in Canada.

But whadda I know? Nothing to see here folks, just another grumpy old man shouting at clouds. Move along.


  1. When I was six or eight years old I was always after my father to tell me some war stories about when he was in the service during WWII. I think Mom might have gotten a little lax on the laundry, but I had no pajamas to wear one night, and was making a fuss. How could I go to bed without pajamas? That's when Dad informed me that, "When I was in the Coast Guard, I didn't wear any GD pajamas. We slept in our underwear."

    "Why was that?"

    "That's so if you had to get up in the middle of the GD night, all you did was pull your pants on."

    So that was it for the PJs. After that I slept like real men sleep; in their underwear, and I kept my dungarees close to hand.

    The preceding anecdote is amusing, but it also illustrates a point. When we were kids, we wanted to be men. We wanted to go to war, kill the enemy, come home and go to work every day. We'd wear a shirt and tie and have a cocktail when we got home. We'd work hard, because our fathers and grandfathers worked hard. And believe me, when I was ten years old I already knew what a long work day was, and it wasn't any three hours of yard work. My hands were calloused. Once in 5th grade a teacher punished me by smacking the palm of my hand with a ruler - which I richly deserved. It stung a little, but I didn't see what the fuss was about. My hands really were all that hard.

    But now? Last time I saw a young man work it was a kid from the neighborhood my mom hired to help Big Frank and I split and stack firewood. He was a tall, skinny kid, but he threw right in with us and was a big help. I kept track of him, and when he went off to college Mom and I helped out a little. He graduated in four years, almost debt free, and got a very nice position as an engineer. The kid was a hard worker, but he's one out of 100, I'm thinking.

    These days the university admits anyone and everyone, offering remedial reading classes to the idiots who couldn't learn to read by the time they matriculated through high school. It isn't right; the world needs manual laborers too.

    And while I'm at it, I'm all too familiar with the typical prewar basilisk masquerading as an elementary school teacher. I killed mine off in a short story - she got pushed down the stairs. She deserved it. About a third of the writing group was horrified by my unfair treatment of the poor old lady, but a few of the guys chuckled and grinned. They knew, you see.

    I'm going to get a martini. Here's how!

    1. LOL. Our fathers would have been a bit alike WL.

      Back in the 70's Pop worked with his hands on jet engines. He had some very special 'extra small' ratchets and sockets from Snap On that your average mechanic never saw in those days. He paid through the nose for them too.

      When I discovered them I thought they were small because they were meant for children and I stole the lot to play with one day. I lost a couple sockets and thought nothing of it.

      When Pop found out I got beat to a bloody green pulp and then - just for good measure - the old bastard electrified his tool box. What kind a demented SOB does shit like that? First time I got zapped I learned to stay the hell out of his tools. He had built a radio into a section between the big box for the big tools and the little one on top for the smaller ones and I think he might have run a shunt from the radio.

    2. Snap On? You swiped the old man's Snap On quarter inch drive set, then LOST a couple sockets?

      My heavenly days.

      Your father was a man of infinite tolerance coupled with the patience of Job. Want proof? You're still breathing and able to father children.

      Snap On tools. There's nothing to equal them.

      If your father was working on jet engines, he had to be pretty good, and not just with his hands, either. Jet engine mechanics had to have it upstairs, plus they needed the manual dexterity to actually do the work. That last part is where I fell down. I've always been clumsy, and just learned that certain career paths were not for me.

    3. Pop was one hell of a mechanic, WL. He got in a royal pissing match with Max Ward back in the day when he bought an antique Box Moth biplane and ordered Pop to restore it to airworthiness for air shows. Pop refused.

      Ward insisted.

      Pop refused again. Ward asked Pop if he wanted a job elsewhere.

      Pop asked Ward if he wanted to be a pallbearer for one of his pilots.

      The pilots themselves got on Pop's case and he restored it and told everyone to be smart and hang it in a museum. It flew two seasons and crashed on Lake Ontario. The pilot survived.

      Ward tried to promote Pop into a flight engineer's position and was going to pay the shot for his education and Pop quit.

      He never flew again, he never twisted a wrench for anyone else again, and that was that for that! I never forgave him because young boys love airplanes and idolize pilots - or at least I did.

      To this day I get the heebie-jeebies at the idea of even touching those tools.

  2. You have interesting taste in music, Glen. ;-)

    1. Oh gawd, that was gross. It was so bad that it deserved honourable mention. :)