It is important to remember how toxic the over-medication of the American Dream can be. The 90’s kids got too much and look at how chemically unbalanced they became. American Dream, spiked with Ritalin, worked out for parents. If by worked out well you mean the finished basement dad dreamed of turning into a lounge now houses a college drop out.
Telling our kids they can be anything they want to when they grow up is sweet sentiment and safe, as long as you couple it with a few shots to the ribs so they know to get back up after a punch. The poor black kid from a broken home can be whomever he desires to be when he grows up, sure, but maybe put that football in his hand because the National Football League is throwing billions at angry black men who care little about longevity of life or brain function. He wants to go to Harvard? Fine. Just make sure he knows they only hand out one golden ticket a year to black Harry Potter and in order to get his name on it he better best the little Indian Boy at the national spelling bee. If not, send him outside to run routes, because the Ivy League only accepts affluents and those most likely to donate six figures to the coffers in twenty years.
Furthermore, on the subject of affluenza, the true secret of racism, as explained by a group of men who have had enough liquid courage to stare around the room making sure they are safe from the prying ears of people of color, there is a difference. Chris Rock told them there was a difference, see, there are blacks and then there are niggers. But don’t worry, they are not racist- because there’s the difference between rednecks and Ralph Polo wearing whites. What is the difference? Fuck if anyone knows other than you don’t like one and instead of just saying a person can be a fucking cunt, it’s easier to blame their pigmentation.
But, I digress. We aren’t talking about affluenza. No, and we certainly are not broaching the subject of race. That is a scary line to walk. What, with one side demanding the other apologies for a deep feud centuries old. Move over Hatfield and McCoy, want to see a real feud?
Race is scary because while we all pretend to be colorblind, there is a certain culture shock attached to hanging with a crowd of people all one color, regardless of what that specific color happens to be. God forbid you come in this world a product of interracial relations, then no group feels comfortable hanging with you.
Guilty of not fitting in on the color scale here. Thanks mom and dad.
You see, we are going through the generation of American Dream Overdose. Hard working parents told their 90’s children over and over they could be anything they want to be. As long as they stayed in school. Well, they all wanted to be social fucking justice white knights for causes that made little to no sense, but were dreamed up to attack the values of mom and dad for no other reason than being forced not to attend homecoming after a failing grade. Why does history matter when we keep letting it play on fucking repeat? I don’t need to pass history, I just need to wait twenty years for it to be redone.
The American Dream killed the 90’s kids and brought a glorious, racist, revival. Mom and Dad wept, as their child wanted to fuck a My Little Pony and rant on about how oppressed they were. This generation is fucked. If you don’t believe that, Google Rule 34.
(I warned you. Soap isn’t going to wash those images from your brain.)
Allow that to be repeated. This generation is fucked. It’s okay though, because without the serum known as American Dream (maybe a more apt name at this point is AMERICAN NIGHTMARE) these kids might have made it out of the madness alright. The previous generation continued to let these children chomp down on the hand that fed them, unsure of whether it was time to wane their children off or continue the force feeding, because, well, daddy was a hard working coal miner who never showed me enough love.
Am I telling it as it is? Maybe I am just another jilted 90’s kid, PISSED THE FUCK OFF at the establishment. Daddy wasn’t there and mommy didn’t care, man. It would be easy to write off my words. I mean, they are only my American Dream. To write and be free of the chains that mommy and daddy bound me in.
I take my coffee black. With two scoops of distorted reality.
Yeah, maybe I am jilted. Maybe I am crazy.
The fact of the matter is, we went to your schools, we went to your churches, we went to your institutional learning facilities.
Briton Underwood, better known as Punk Rock Papa, is a parent above all else. When he gets sick of being at their beck and call, he likes to escape to his page or site. He writes about any and everything he wants, but mainly about his twin boys or his newest addition- another boy. He also would like the world to know he has a beautiful wife, because the couch isn’t that comfy.