I was driving to work this morning and glanced in my rear-view mirror.
At the mere sight of the driver behind me, my immunohippie response gland dumped antihippomine into my blood stream, and I instantly knew everything about her.
What she was thinking: "I can't believe I have to work to feed this country's Corporatocracy." "Why can't I just live a carbon-neutral life in the woods, subsisting on stream water, berries, and Starbucks venti soy double triple mocha frappaccinos?" "How can I make name-calling a valid debate tactic?" "Mother Gaia, please give me the strength to attack idiots who believe there's a god." "I can't believe my car runs on gasoline. If only I had an electric car that ran on coal." "I wish everyone felt as horrible as I do. Then they'd understand how happy they'd be if they'd only live the way I tell them to." "I know the aphids and caterpillars need their 'fair share,' but my organic garden is in shambles!" "Should I ram the "don't tread on me" car in front of me?" "How hard should I ram the "don't tread on me" car in front of me?"
What she had for breakfast: Free-trade cruelty-free gluten-free soy-free organic cardboard pieces in a bowl of water, eaten with a fork (to save the water for tomorrow, because, the rainforest, or something). The horrible lingering taste assures a permanent scowl for the day, and the roughage offers regular bowel movements to withhold in order to preserve the Earth's precious resources of toilet paper, toilet water, and pinched assholes.
What car she was driving: A rusted, dirt-colored Saaaab 1.1 liter[e] 0.5 cylinder Pretentiousmobile, with at least one patch of duct tape to prove she wouldn't buy another car "just because this one is broken/slow/getting poor mpg/absolutely horrible."
What bumper stickers were on her car: "Tree hugging dirt worshiper," "You can't hug your kids with nuclear arms," "Imagine world peace," "Violence is never the answer," "Kill all Republicans," "YOUR electricity comes from coal. MINE comes from unicorn giggles!" "Carter '13," "Stop having kids, the Earth is full," "My gender non-specific child got a Rainbow in non-patriarchal Math at Free-To-Be-Me Non-School of Worldly Understanding, along with all the other children, so they didn't feel left out."
During the indulgence of this unavoidable physiological response, I couldn't help but wonder when this generation would do itself a favor and relieve the Earth of its burden by just turning to freakin' compost already.
I immediately lamented the increased average life expectancy that our decreasingly-free-market healthcare industry provided.
They'd probably linger longer than any generation before them, turning into that monolithic voting bloc: Single-Issue Seniors, with the added bitterness of a "generation ME!" selfish streak so thick the edges almost touch on the other side.
But wait! There's a sparkle of hope! Obamacare!
I'm reminded of a news piece noting Obamacare is likely to drive up premiums and drive out competition, and I realize the sweet poetic justice that this generation stuck its children with a bill so large that the interest payments will hit them first.
Though Obamacare will eventually burn everything to the ground, at least it will burn its supporters first, and give us time for a futile, but satisfying, "I told you so!"
The boomer generation hitting retirement and the power of this fully armed and operational Obamacare will be a knock-out blow to the already beleaguered healthcare industry, and it will crumple, giving way to the monumental 20,000 page dullard they have created.
The older generation, which requires healthcare at a significantly greater rate than the rest, will be forced to rely on federal healthcare schemes, which are already cutting back on coverage to deal with the same fatal flaw from which every Ponzi scheme suffers; actually paying the participants.
This generation, first and most, will taste the bitterness of admitting that maybe Sarah Palin was right about "death panels," as a nameless, faceless, unelected, and untouchable murder of bureaucrats finds chemotherapy is mostly unsuccessful, and therefore, not an appropriate use of increasingly scarce tax-payer dollars.
The spiteful satisfaction may be limited somewhat by the laughter coming from the Boomer Graveyard as aforementioned committee determines your allotment of rations is reduced to zero because you are not an appropriate use of increasingly scarce tax-payer dollars.
But all is not lost! If it's a suicide pact they wanted, they probably should have considered what armed, freedom-minded individuals oppressed by a Kafkaesque bureaucracy might do with nothing to lose.
So, shine on, you crazy conflict-free diamond, you've sealed your fate, and have likely set into motion events that will bring about the exact opposite of what you wanted.
The God of Unintended Consequences is a fickle contrarian, and you'll be powerless to stop his final domino from falling right on top of your fat heads.