You admired strength, resolve and purposefulness; we were stuck with weakness and indecision. You saw the world as something to be conquered; we saw the world as a hostile force needing to be appeased. You dealt with life head-on, never complaining and never explaining; we ran home and told our mommies. You cheered when macho neanderthals like John Wayne or Steve McQueen kicked some “bad” guy’s butt, and swelled with pride at that whole faked “moon landing” charade, while we ogled Jane Fonda as Barbarella atop that anti-aircraft gun in Hanoi, and rolled around naked in the mud at Woodstock. Think of us as Cain to your Abel, hating you from practically the moment we were born, hating you for your excellence and your unabashed pursuit thereof while we were the ugly stepchildren. Well, Cinderfella – how do you like us now?
Well, now you’re old, fat, and broke, looking at a retirement living on a shrinking social security pension as you croak in ever increasing numbers from your nicotine habits only grudgingly relinquished, while you watch your once-mighty cultural dominance mover ever closer to irrelevance.
You’re hated by your kids, and you’ll be despised as looters and wreckers by your grandkids. But that’s okay, right? You made your cultural mark.
On the sands of Ozymandias.