Now I love teenagers, which makes me in the shallow minority of adults. I find them endlessly amusing probably in no small part because I share the same emotional range and maturity level as they do. I’m just older, so it’s more pathetic. I’m not a freak, though, so I don’t like hang around used record stores trying to relive my Glory Days and buy smokes for 16-year-olds in the vain attempt that I might “be the COOL adult” now because THAT is just sad.
Nah, I just like ’em. Much more, I should add, than I do most other age brackets, up to and including preteens.
Preteens, however, I’m convinced, rule the fucking world.
Case and point. On Twitter, for the three of you blissfully without an account, for like 4 weeks or 6 years, Justin Beaver was a trending topic. Trending topics are SUPPOSED to be things like “Oil Spill” or “Britney Spears Crotch,” you know, RELEVANT things, but instead, we had the preteens of the world automating twitter with “JUSTIN BEAVER” over and over again so that he remained a trending topic day after motherfucking day.
Twitter, God BLESS them, finally pulled the plug and refused to let his foppy hair-cutted ass trend any longer. Because really, unless someone assassinates him or proves that he does, indeed have a beaver (neither of which I am advocating), it’s not fucking national news.
So Twitter, this is Your Aunt Becky humping your leg for doing that AND removing #sponsored tweets. If you live under a rock and don’t know what those are, I applaud you because those make me Furious George.
MOVING ON BEFORE MY HEAD ESSPLODES.
Last night was the esteemed Glee Live tour. I won’t go as far as to say that I’m a “Gleek” because that’s a fucking DUMBASS name, but I love that show. Hard. Yeah, okay, it’s contrived and silly and a little soft, but you know what? IT’S COTTON CANDY. It serves no purpose other than to be there and make you happy. In a world where we very well may need to buy a large area rug to cover up the oil spill in the Gulf, maybe we can use some fluff.
I expected that the theatre would have some teenagers in it. And probably some awesomely gay men. What I did NOT expect was that the theatre would be packed wall-to-wall with screaming hoards of preteens bursting with irritating noise and energy.
Had I not been dying of the Flu Made Who and unable to stand for more than .2 seconds at a time, I would have found their exuberance merely funny rather than exhausting, but as it was, every time ANYTHING happened, they SHRIEKED. I couldn’t muster a single WORD without it making me tear up in pain and they were flaunting the use of their perfect vocal chords RIGHT IN FRONT OF ME.
Had I had a cane, I would have swatted them with it.
They’re all clearly robots because NO ONE has that kind of energy without being high as a kite, insane in the membrane, or artificial intelligence. The amount of money and time put into their elaborately made “GLEE shirts” illustrate to me that they are clearly decepticons from the future, sent to destroy humanity, one decibel at a time.
The show, however, was worth the shrieks. I didn’t take pictures because really, it was kind of pointless because they were all DANCING and MOVING and shit, but I’m telling you this: if you like the show and you can somehow score tickets the next time they go on tour (which, they will because FOX will bleed those kids for every cent they can possibly make) DO IT.
You may be killed by decepticons posing as awkward preteens, but at least you’ll go out whistling “Sweet Caroline.”