My great-uncle was at the Battle of the Bulge.

Jackin’ off!

That’s how fuckin’ tough they were back then—you try it!

It ain’t easy to stay in the mood when those German 88’s open up. It’ll separate the men from the boys real quick. And that’s why we only draft boys, not men, if we can help it…

Yeah, the goddamned greatest generation—see, never judge a people by their music.

Or their movies… Or their slang… Or their TV…Or their bras… Or their violent over-reaction to long hair on men…

Of course, in subsequent years the Greatest Generation almost nuked the world to death several times but who’s to say we would have done any better—those radar blips can look damn threatening sometimes.

“When in doubt, nuke.” That’s what the manual said. So maybe they were pretty great to hold back and let us live out this farce.

Remember, farcical meaningless existence is not free. People died for your absurdity, while other people withheld pressing their world-annihilation button.

And your Greatest Generation ancestors paid good money to get you that Absurdity out in Levittown.

That was back when we even had good money. Now it’s all got coke residue and Ritalin dust on it.

But back then, joints used to be two-for-25¢ in Harlem and pilots took meth. Now that’s the greatest generation!

Can you imagine the economic boon to Harlem if joints were once again two-for-25¢?

And with meth, everyone’s a Sullenberger.

Shit, with meth, my great-uncle could have made that landing jacking off.

They were the greatest, no doubt. They fought fascism with freedom and then they fought the freedom of the sixties with fascism.

So they beat you up for having long hair—at least they cared how you look. Now no one gives a shit about you. Which is better?

Of course, every new paragraph in this piece means another member of that greatest generation has just croaked, so I’d better end it here before they’re all gone.