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Published March 17, 2011

I remember being small. I remember charging around the house in my “Leisure Suit Larry” underoos, fighting off imaginary pedophiles with my Super Soaker 150. Life was simpler back then. When you’re little, they tell you that you can do anything you set your mind to. Y’know, besides Jedi mind tricks. Jedi mind tricks are bullshit. George Lucas is bullshit.

Fuck you, George Lucas.


Things get exponentially more difficult the older you become, and like other members of my generation, I was born and bred to grow my hair long and rail against the establishment–preferably to the soothing tones of the “Reality Bites” soundtrack.

Where to begin? Join a protest? Hell no–those placards cost money. Found a socialist ‘zine? Seriously–I’ve got around fifteen dollars. Well, I suppose I could sit in the corner and focus on my hair growing long. Maybe I’ll get some good, lonely poetry out of that. But do you know what would help? What would really make me into a true-blue leader of the countercultural elite?

A job.

This plan works brilliantly for two reasons. First and foremost, as I sit in at my mindless cubicle a-tap, tap, tapping away, the katana-wielding blonde who serves as an avatar for my out of control subconscious will rail against my boredom with surgical focus, driving me to a physical state wherein the only sane reaction to any external stimuli is a fist pump and a smattering of modern Hebrew. My subconscious is a master of Krav Maga. It’s a dangerous world.

This plan also works because the best demonstrations of counterculture comes from the rich.

Stop laughing–it’s true.

From the blue-collar ideals expressed through the music of Bruce Springstein to the the drag-queen-esque tastes of my rapping nubian brothers, the best way to piss off the conservative status quo is to have a lot of money.

Countless rebels have expressed themselves to feel alienated and alone, but that’s bullshit. Kurt Cobain would’ve loved facebook, and I’m surprised Bukowski didn’t type his poetry onstage and charge admission.

What am I saying, you might ask? I’m saying that Winona should have married Ben, and that alienation’s for the rich.

…Fuck you, George Lucas.