“Kids these days”: a phrase that signified that whoever was speaking was probably a geriatric, wheelchair-riding human relic, or was plodding their way there with each inch of sagging skin. It was a phrase that virtually guaranteed that an oft-practiced bathroom mirror speech was forthcoming, educating the youths on their terrible life choices and how earlier generations were better than them.

Most of the time these speeches were unnecessary, incessant babbling of misplaced anger over weakened erections and longer, intensified douching sessions. However, in extreme cases, like when you discover your child has a collection of personally-skinned cat hides, a speech is necessary.

Kids need to learn that the old school tactics of not killing a person, but killing their will to live, is much safer and rewarding.

So is an appointment with a psychologist. And maybe a group home. Definitely locks on your bedroom door. Possibly a well-hidden firearm, somewhere in the house where the previously mentioned child would have trouble reaching but you could get to with ease.  Unfortunately, methods like these are much more prevalent currently because kids these days just don’t know how to be kids.

Violence among children has skyrocketed faster than Donald Trump’s blood pressure when he’s questioned about…literally anything. Cat fights turn into street brawls, road rage becomes drive-bys, and Facebook arguments become real life re-enactments of GTA V – even the ladies of the night stop their business meetings to watch.

Nowadays it’s no longer cool to light a bag of poop on fire (he called the shit POOP!) and leave it on old man Sanders’ porch. Now you have to burn the house down and old man Sanders with it. Kids have such weakened, fragile mentalities that the parking lots at schools look like the final scene in Platoon where hardened enemies engage in a battle royale to the death, and there’s a kid in the corner stabbing himself in the leg so he can go home early.

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Kids need to learn that the old school tactics of not killing a person, but killing their will to live, is much safer and rewarding. Not only do you get to watch the person you hate crumble into an unrespectable oaf who will ultimately develop crippling anxiety problems that will forever handicap his life, but you won’t have to serve time for murder in prison where you’ve garnered an impressive collection of homogenized peanut butter packets because you need something close by to serve as anal lube for the looming interracial gang rapes that you are bound to be the centerpiece of.

If you need revenge on somebody, use one of the classic techniques:

  • Leave a stink bomb in their locker.
  • Invite yourself over to their house in an act of peace and leave an upper-decker in their toilet.
  • Fire a Roman candle at them from across a parking lot – don’t get it too close, just enough to get their attention and let them know you’re not fucking around.
  • Bake them brownies with Ex-Lax.
  • Saran Wrap their car shut.
  • Set their car on fire.

Whatever you have to do, just stop the killing – it’s senseless.

And if you’re one of those kids who soak up the verbal and potentially physical abuse like an Always Heavy Overnight Maxi Pad, letting the pubescent angst build up inside you until deciding that breaking into your weird Uncle Randy’s gun collection and spraying the school hallways with your classmates’ innards in your own eerie “Banksy” way is the only option, well believe me, there are much better ways to release your anger.

From the homeowner who finds his Halloween pumpkins smashed in the street on a Saturday morning, to the pool manager who is astonished by all his patio furniture drowning in the deep end, youth aggression is a fact of life that all people must deal with, like it or not.

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In my younger days, the ones where I would marvel at the hairs that had grown on my nuts, my aggression was used in many forms, all of which did not include killing another person. Granted, some people could have died in the course of my escapades, but their potential deaths were not the end goal. My mischievousness was focused on my enjoyment only.

For instance, I once stole a handicap sign from a local museum because I thought it would look cool on my wall. Unfortunately, I was corralled by an employee of the museum the next day and was told that if I didn’t return the sign I would be turned in to my junior high authorities, expelled, and left to lead a life that when explained to me oddly resembles the one I lead now. There was also a period in my life (junior high) where I would urinate in empty water bottles and throw them off a bridge, hoping to land them into an open sunroof.

Regardless of how weird those tactics were, and the potential danger caused, they were ways for me to relieve my youthful angst without thinking of taking someone’s life. Kids these days must be provided an outlet such as mine to stem the hormonal anger that is seeping into their lives. Then, as they grow older, they will find alcohol and drugs and learn to self-medicate themselves.

If our youth are to survive the angry world we live in, they must be taught to deal with their anger in more conventional, youthful ways. Stink bombing lockers, stealing handicap signs and shooting roman candles at each other are all useful ways to end the genocide our youth have engaged in.

Kids: your enemies don’t have to die, but they can still suffer a little bit. And remember, if all else fails, you can always try fucking their mom. Kids these days hate that.

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