Tuesday, October 19, 2010

Let's Rankle the Childhood Cockles

I have a theory. This theory will rankle some bones and chill some cockles. I like to bone-rankle and cockle-chill so I'm gonna put this out there. Let me ask that before you form an opinion and condemn me for the idea I place before you that you please read the entirety of this post. If then you choose to take issue with my words, then by all means, comment and tell me. On the flip side, if you agree with anything you read, whether in part or in full, comment and speak your mind. Communication is the foundation of advancement or education. If I don't speak my mind, I lose. If you don't speak your mind, you lose. Who wants to be a loser? (see how I let that slide without further elaboration? I'm not heartless.)

My age in years outweighs my age in mentality. I'm probably the most obnoxiously young forty-six and 3/4 year old man you will ever meet. I simply refuse to grow up and for that I am quite proud. That being said, I'll admit that I did attempt to grow up at one point in my life. I firmly believe that at the moment I raised the facade of maturity is the moment that my inner self took a tiny step forward and meekly mumbled, "uh, this ain't you, dickhead." Of course, I refused to listen. This brings me to my theory ... ready?

Mini-vans and soccer are the cause of lost individuality in this century's adults and the decline in respect for authority and self-sufficientcy in today's youth.

"You're screwed in the head," you might say. "What in the name of Hades are you talking about?" you ask. I say 'Yes' to the former and 'Wait, I'll expound', to the latter.

It's not as complicated as it seems. I once piloted a Mazda MPV. Yes, I of the anti-cul-de-sac mentality drove the frickin' wheels off the thing. But, why did I drive one to begin with? Could I not squeeze my spawn into my Honda Prelude? Surely, yes. How about the post-marriage Nissan 240-Z? Plenty of room for freshly-baked bread strapped into the necessary cargo area.

So, what was my imminent downfall? The minivan. And what eventually is the downfall of every child conceived in the past twenty-five years? Quite simple, the mini-van.

Allow me to elaborate ... may I? I'll tie soccer into this in a moment. Hold your venom, you'll have your opportunity ... But first, the minivan ... the vehicle conceived by a man who was browbeaten by a woman ... a man who discovered that by purchasing a home in a cul-de-sac somewhere in this great country, he surrendered his testicles which were promptly interred in the testicle graveyard by his signigicant other.
"Let us aquire a vehicle that will allow us to traverse the city, county, state and country as a cohesive family unit," were the words uttered. No matter if the words were uttered by the husband or wife. The ideal vision of family cohesiveness for the benefit of the burgeoning spawn had been cast by society long ago.

As such, a spoiled child is born. The MPV, the Windstar, the Town & Country, the Sienna, Pilot ... they do  not beong to the parent. These vehicles belong to the growing, spoiled offspring of those who chauffeur said vehicles. Oh, it is more than just dropping off at school and driving to grandma's house on the weekend. This is about catering to the every whim and fancy of an individual who's balls haven't dropped or can't properly text her BFF on her Droid.

Soccer? Weekend soccer is a social event for the parent. More than that, it's a way for kids to get what they want... a chance to score a goal, block a scoring attempt or simply prove that they can stand alert for twenty minutes without eating a booger. What will any of these milestones accomplish? Pride for the parents who long-ago surrendered self-identity for an image of society's ideal parent and acceptance for a child that did nothing but showed up in professional soccer gear and didn't eat his or her own booger.

And so it is that minivans carry our youth to universal acceptance. They will lose games on the field. They will win enough tickets at Chuck E. Cheese to redeem for a pencil. They will travel the quarter mile from home to school, holding their McGriddle and watching Spongebob on the rear projection DVD player in the 'ol family truckster ... Then, suddenly, they will be on the verge of adulthood and exclaim, "What have you done for me lately?"

They are our future. Let us ban minivans. Let us send soccer back to Europe. Hell, let's take a quarter of the troops from Afghanistan to search for the male manhood graveyard.

Or, let's just stand up and reclaim control from the little bastards that seem to know how to push mommy and daddy's buttons. It's as easy as trading the car and going bowling. Both takes balls.

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