Genetic Mutants

In 1967, watching the Hippie movement, the sit-ins, the protests, and the riots on television, my father said it felt just like 1932.  He mentioned something about an education doctrine invoked by the then-recently formed teachers unions at CCNY and the pact they’d made to change the education system, generation by generation.

A good friend was in his thirties in 1967, a solid working citizen, though not yet married.  A young lady convinced him and his friends to go to a party in New York City’s Greenwich Village.  He says it might have been hosted by Abbie Hoffman, but if Hoffman was there, it was hard to tell through the haze of marijuana smoke.  There was serious talk of a violent overthrow of the government, of bombings and assassinations.

“What are you going to do with your life,” my friend asked a party-goer.  “What are you going to do for a living?”

“I dunno,” came the glassy-eyed response.

“How are you going to work?”

Again, “I dunno.”

“Don’t you care about your future?” my friend persisted.

“I don’t care,” he said.  “All I know is, I’m high!  Wheeeeee!”  The student whirled around in a circle, his hippie beads swinging.

My friend didn’t like what he was seeing and hearing.  He called to his other friends and told them they needed to get out of there; that it was dangerous.

Aside from the OWS generation’s proclivity for imitating their grandparents, is it possible that the grandparents also passed on damaged genetic material from their Woodstock drug days?  Not only did they damage their own brains with a rainbow of hallucinogenic drugs, but those of their off-spring’s off-spring as well?  The Sixties took up the tribal chant, but at least they were capable of issuing a different response, or at least memorizing what they were taught by the Thirties Generation.  Generation Zzzzz can only repeat what they hear.  Their memories are evidently so impaired that in a space of few moments, they forget what they were told.

A documentary-maker filmed the Zurcotti Park crowd.  He tried to test their knowledge of economics but received only blank stares to his questions.  Even Economics for Dummies would be beyond their ken, it seems.  One complained about the trend of technology replacing human workers; a trend as old as the Industrial Revolution.  It’s called “progress.”  Real progress, not “Progressive” progress which, according to one young lady, would have us all living on communal farms worshipping pagan gods and wearing animal skins for clothes.

A simpler life for simple people.  If you’re not smart enough to know how to invest in the stock market, or at least save some of your earnings for the future, then a commune is thebest  place for you.  They used to send useless idiots to the asylum, where the inmates lived on bread and water, believed they were masters of the universe, slept on straw, and defecated on the floor to their hearts’ content.

Forty years of socialist “progress” and this is what we have to show for it:  mental defectives squatting in a New York City park demanding free food, clothing and shelter.  Violent, unprincipled, and brain-damaged, their keepers have connived New York’s mayor into allowing them to stay there, so long as they don’t hurt anyone.  Eventually, they’ll be so doped out that the city can build a nuthouse around them.  The bad weather is coming and New York’s canyons are a wind-swept wasteland in the winter.  Put up some iron bars on the windows – for their protection, naturally – put a padlock on the door, and once a week, have the Hazmat team go in and clear out the fouled straw.