We Are Raising A Generation Of Wimps — And Also They Keep Putting Chocolate Frosting On My Chair To Make It Look Like I Crapped My Pants

Let’s face it: We are raising a generation of wimps. Today’s youth are so coddled that they are growing up to become weak snowflakes who are unable to function without constant affirmations and “pats on the back.” And also they keep putting chocolate frosting on my chair to make it look like I shit myself.

Read my lips: I have never once in my life been given a “participation trophy.” Everything in my life has been earned. I have also never, ever crapped in my pants, despite what it looks like after these youths have placed chocolate frosting on my chair.

Where are they getting all this chocolate frosting? How do they always know where I’ll be? These are questions that keep me up at night. The situation has cost me my marriage. I’ve started coming in late to work.

I have to admit I found it amusing at first. “Haha,” I used to say when I’d stand up from my desk and find my bottom dripping with chocolate frosting. But everyone has their breaking point. Mine was when this generation started putting chocolate frosting on my toilet seat. It made me question everything. Fake doo-doo where I do doo-doo? I had to call my priest, Father Dole. He came over to my house and banged on the door.

“Don’t come in,” I said.

“Tony, open up,” he said.

“No, go away,” I said.

“Tony, open this door in the name of the lord,” he said.

I opened the door and he saw the mess I was in. Shit and chocolate frosting everywhere. The lines were blurred. I was all fucked up.

“Bless me fada, for I done sinned,” I said.

Father Dole looked horrified and started throwing holy water at me.

“Back, demon!” he yelled.

“Don’t be like dat, fadda,” I said.

But Father Dole kept screaming at me to be silent and saying I was possessed by an evil spirit. Really? Me? I thought chocolate frosting on my pants was embarrassing — but finding out you’re possessed by a demon really takes the cake, if you’ll pardon the wordplay. Could the younger generation be responsible for this, too? I tried to think. Then I remembered that I had visited an ancient catacomb recently and a skeleton jumped out from behind a rock and bit my neck. Damn. So it was the older generation’s fault after all! Maybe I’d misjudged these youths.

Father Dole was running out of steam and I could tell his Latin was rusty as he kept slipping into Klingon.

“Fadda, I wanna confess,” I said, interrupting him. “I wrongly blamed da young generation fer puttin chocolate frostin on me arse. But it were an ancient demon dis whole time. Bless me, fadda.”

“I-ay absolve-yay your sins-lay,” Father Dole said, and we both sighed with relief. I put my pants back on. Then we went down to the vending machine to celebrate with some Pepsis.

“Am I cured, fadda?” I said as we sat down on some wicker chairs and our drinks hissed open.

“The curse is gone,” he said, wiping his forehead. “The heart is another matter — it takes more time to heal.”

We stood up and shook hands. Father Dole turned to go to his car.

“Fadda…” I said.

“Yes, my child?” he said.

“Never mind,” I said.

I watched him walk away. I pulled out a cigarette. I lit it. I took a drag and shook my head. The poor bastard. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that his ass was drenched in chocolate frosting.

I looked around for the youths, but as always, I couldn’t catch them. I took another drag and reached into my pocket and pulled out a Certificate of Participation. I set it down on the chair and went inside. They’d won this round. They’d earned this.