Rubb

Mothers, lock up your daughters!

Fathers, recheck the ammunition!

Uncle, man the barricades of your arid, suburban kingdom of conformity!

Grandfather, recite for us the soothing myths of your crumbling dynasty!

Your time is over. The old ways, which lulled you so, are lost. The barbarians are here, now, at the gates. No tradition is sacred. No icon shall be spared! The old institutions that propped up your kings and queens, that pulled Power's levers in the name of your presidents—see how they have withered and drifted like smoke.

With their mohawk-style haircuts, their Tattoos of Irony, their peculiar pince-nez sunglasses (?), they come. And as the ultimate sign of their rebellion, they arrive as voluntary offerings. Subverting even their own paradigm—does nothing win their respect?—they wish only to be killed.

So draw back, you Children of Yesterday, lest this pig die all over you.






Addendum: Are we alone in finding the punk-rock victims especially depressing? Remember these meeksters?