Letter from an old fart at a young con
Stulturum Infinitus est ": The number of cons is infinite, liked to repeat King Solomon. Yes, but all the idiots are not stored in one basket. Overall, the best minds es bullshit like to distinguish two categories: young and old farts.
Whitening in harness, I agree without hesitation under the banner of old age. So why write to a younger con? Well I'll tell you, to paraphrase a small dynamic fifties, who wants it and has lots of ticks.
Firstly, I would have liked to have seen such a missive sent me when I myself was young and stupid. Already alerted me to the danger of too listen to the speech of any recurring old fart who respects: it was better before. Ah, it was better before! This phrase has always been used as a yardstick of bullshit aging. It is served with any sauce.
Piochon at random: In time, they knew fun. Want So! Danced to rock and it was dragging on ballads. Now, you dance alone, as mindless, a melodious electronic music as an electro cardiogram. Charles you speak! For older morons, remember the twist. It flickered solo jerking with force, as St. Vitus dance, with lyrics that could pass for Carlos Annie Cordy and authors of the Pleiades.
And most importantly, our time, we knew fun without getting high on gin and red bull or ecstasy. We knew how to live, we, young assholes! You surprise me Simone! It was known mostly die in atrocious suffering, coming out of corners like stuffed box, sitting in the back of a Golf GTI driven by an alien in charge of beer breath and cannabis resin. The firefighters had only to recover the body of the dead, seated at the right hand of God steering wheel, and two or three burns to the chest down, spitting blood in rhythm with the cassette of Boney M, sole survivor carnage.
No, remain serious. Boney M, still happening, but a Golf GTI, it never. No question of leaving the softness of a DS, or even an ID 19 for most of laïcards snobs! In our time, the alpha and omega a successful youth was to do everything to not look like anyone: a black moped when fashion was at Motley motorcycles, when the Stones were 4 boys in the wind, Lou Reed when the vane was pointing to Mick Jagger. In cinema, it was worse ... The art and essay, LOUD please. Man Atlantic, Marguerite Duras, Pierrot le fou at the boundary and a deep contempt for boulevarderies belmondiennes or lelouchiennes. All this to get to read together and that's all best sellers by Anna Gavalda, a distracted eye, the other being busy watching old branchouillerie canalplusienne continue in trendy circles. We cut the Ardisson and then push the string on the dark glasses of our sleepless nights. Ah, it looks smart to berate our kids happily sheep, Facebook band.
And the worst part is that these young con whoop and dance remixes of our finest kitcheries Abba, cloc-clo. Why not Maxime Le Forestier, Angel Starshooter or for that matter? Bastards of young assholes!
Finally, it is true that it was better before! Well, this one last apple that young people do not pirate and I returned to the terrace give red meat to my plants.
Me FOLAC
