I don't bitch very much, because it's the lot that I chose. For some reason, I felt like it was time to grow up a little when I got married. (For you ignorant sons-of-bitches, that's called sacrams, er, sarcasm!) Slow down the drinking and partying a little bit, and go find a real job. Not only did I marry my beautiful wife, but I also became a step-daddy to three wonderful kids. Since being married, my wife and I have brought yet another little guy into the world.

Anyway, back to the story and the problem at hand. Here I am, sitting in this place, offloading my truck in the early morning. The sun hasn't yet come up, but the sky is starting to change color, or at least it has in the small places where I can see it through the clouds of the storm that has been blowing through for the last few days, drenching everything at lower elevations, and freezing everything at higher elevations. That includes me, of course. If you've never had a blue collar job, you should try it. Real work has a certain pleasure and pain balance to it, you know? God bless the blue collar workers that make life better for the rest of us. I'm sitting in my truck, looking at pictures of my family who I haven't seen for about a week (although I talked to my son the night before, who likes to say “do-dooo!”, which is his version of “Scooby-Do”, and it got me a bit misty-eyed). And as I sit, waiting to get out of the truck and break the hoses loose so I can get out of the way before the morning crew shows up, a Dodge Ram pick-up with a lift kit comes ripping into the driveway and nearly slides to a stop near the propane filling station on the other side of the two 30,000 gallon tanks. Some kid jumps out of the truck and goes about hooking up the hoses to the fuel tank on the truck. Ever wonder why so many people that work around the stuff drive vehicles powered by it? Different subject.

Okay, now, I say kid. He was probably about seventeen or eighteen years old. A kid in my book just in case some of you reading this are in that age range. I watch him run over and open a few valves and start attempting to fill the tank. It occurs to me that I have some valves turned different ways because I am offloading, and thinking he was drawing from the same tanks I was putting product into, I thought, maybe I should go let this kid know about it. So I climb down from the truck and walk over to him. Turns out he was drawing from another smaller tank that I didn't notice, so the valves are immaterial to him. You know, that ain't no thing, but this is: This kid looked at me and talked to me like I was some dumb ass who didn't know what the hell he was talking about. Then, all of a sudden... All at once, this kid, in his red flannel jacket, blue jeans, and tennis shoes became one of the many people that just flatly deserve a good swift kick in the ass. Why? Read on!

When I grew up, I was taught how to respect my elders. They knew more than I did, and had been a lot of places and done a lot of things that I had not. They had experiences that I did not have the opportunity or misfortune (depending on how you look at it) of being able to draw from. They surely worked harder in their various vocations than I did in my tenure as a over priced hall-monitor (of course, that's comparative, for those who may have done or are doing the same job. I had fun doing that job and learned quite a bit from the other guys I worked with). If I talked disrespectfully to my elders, there was a consequence. But I would never do that because I was taught respect. This kid, obviously was not. He is like many members of the younger generations. One of my prior jobs was law enforcement related (that is security guard, not police officer, although some people do have a hard time differentiating). Believe it or not, some of those jobs have their perks. Mine? The perks were dealing with little punks like that who needed a wake up call. Most of those little shits never had to deal with any real authority, so they pop off to some security guard thinking they can, and the next thing they know they are against the wall with handcuffs on, and being handed off to a police officer. Education... School. I can't help but wonder if that kid has ever had a knife pulled on him. Did he ever have to put a guy three times his size in handcuffs? Does he know what it means to be hungry and cold? Does he know what it is like to be shit on and stabbed in the back when you have put so much effort into trying to be there for everyone else? This kid works at this establishment. I hope I never have an opportunity to talk to him, because I need my job, and I'm sure the company needs the account. (Oh yeah! Almost lost my job that way too! Telling some little shit kid what my bosses told me to tell him!) I should say, I think this kids daddy must run this establishment. So that begs the final question... Does this kid only know that everything he needs will always be there as long as he is “working” his blue collar job?

Okay, so let's put this in plain terms. The problem is with the younger generations, and it's due, in part to the bullshit that the older generations have been letting them get away with. Somewhere along the line, someone felt like their life was just too difficult for them growing up, and they were never told what they should appreciate. They were allowed to sit on their ass and dwell on the negative stuff, like... rules and moral guidelines. So then they had a kid, and decided not to be so hard on them, because obviously they had it so hard themselves. A legitimate argument? Yeah, sometimes, I'm sure it is. But look at the results today. Kids who disrespect their parents, and parents who let it happen. Kids who kill their parents, and a public that says, “Aw, look, but Eric says he's sorry!” Kids that have everything they ever wanted and yet somehow can get away with telling everyone how hard their little life was. Shit. Is it just a California thing? Shit no. Read the news if you can stomach it. (Did I offend a Californian? I'm a Californian, too, deal with it.)

Now this is the part of the article where I am supposed to present you with a solution... well, can you think of one that won't land you in jail when the kid whose hand you just slapped yells child abuse? (All of those who ever got hit with a belt say, “Ay!”) Or one that won't see that kid in a therapists' office years from now, talking about how it's all your fault to a shrink who lets them feed themselves that shit? (All of those who would feel like they were talking to a brick wall if they convinced someone of that shit, say “Ay! Ay!”) Cause and effect. Good job, Americans! See there are two types of Americans. Those that constantly whine, bitch, and scream over everything that causes a little discomfort. And then there is the rest of us who know better, but just can't seem to bitch loud enough.

Now I have to get back to work. Just as soon as I figure out how to get my truck out of here, since it's blocked in by a bunch of vehicles driven by people I can't talk to because they don't need to understand the English language to be a citiz... oops, what the hell am I thinking? But if I call la migra then isn't that harassment? According to at least one judge in this state it is... even if it is the police that call them! Oooh, I can hear it now. RACIST BASTARD! You know, I would almost entertain that notion... IF I WASN'T MARRIED TO A MEXICAN! SHUT THE FUCK UP!

By the way, riddle me this! How do you get a violent transsexual who is afraid of his... her... their own shadow? Take away my will to be better than the little shit I described above! (Aw, poor little shit, it ain't his fault he's like that...)

Think about it.