We Still Hate Millennials, Right?

by Mark Saporta, Generational Grand Canyon Correspondent


Next time you see a millennial, look at them. Really look at them. Stare at them with all of your psyche, and you will see what I see. You will see them as they truly are, and then you will understand.

They are beings of pure sin.

The first, most important thing to know about millennials is that they are Bad. They are not bad in a conventional sense, like a punch to the face or Nickelback. No, they are objectively bad. They are bad in a way that the word “bad” cannot even describe, because “bad” is a human word meant for use on a human scale. Millennials are cosmically bad. They are badness distilled. They are, in a very real sense, devils in human conceit.

Perhaps that is unfair. At least Lucifer was once an angel. Millennials lack even that erstwhile glimmer of decency. They were born of evil, they are evil, they shall return to evil. So it goes.

And don’t get me started on man buns. What genius thought those looked good? Sheesh, kids these days. Anyway:

You may be asking “Why are millennials bad?” “What proof have you of this quality?” And you would be well within your rights to ask such a thing. Alas, I cannot answer.

I cannot answer why millennials are so bad for the same reason one cannot answer why despair is so tragic, or hatred so dreadful. Despair and hatred are concepts; so too, in a way, are millennials. They do not simply bear evil within them, they are synonymous with evil.

And they’re always whining about their triggers and their safe spaces. It’s like, come on, you privileged fucks, grow the hell up! You’re not going to be able to shield your precious little eyes from reality forever!

You know, when I was a young man, we didn’t get pissy if our goddamn quinoa wasn’t cruelty-free! We didn’t bellyache all day about how society was oppressing us! We weren’t hellspawns in the guise of man, bringing ruin through our very being! No, god dammit, we were normal, decent people with normal, decent lives! These pampered, coddled harbingers of malevolence would do well to follow suit.

Why Snake People are the Worst Generation

by Michael Quinn, Resident Grumpy Fifty Year Old Who Remembers the Good Old Days


Snake People. They’re coming, and they’re the future. But are they ready for the challenges of independence? Approximately twenty percent of snake people still live with their parents, yet no one seems ready to tell them that it’s time to slither out of the terrarium and start hunting their own small mammals. They seem to spend more and more time on the internet mindlessly hissing about socialism, and less time working for practical necessities like heat lamps for their families. And we all know that lazy snake person who would rather spend all their time taking “sssssselflies” than looking for a job. Maybe you have one sleeping on your couch.

So what makes snake people the irredeemable generation of trash that they are? What mistakes did their whiney liberal parents make, and how can we get them to take the half digested deer carcasses out of their mouths, hinge their jaws back together, and make something of themselves?

I don’t have answers to these question. But I do have opinions. Here are the top seven reasons that Snake People are the worst generation in history:

  1. They shed their skins all over the place and don’t clean them up because their parents always did it for them.
  1. They speak in parseltongue, and it’s annoying because it sounds like maybe they are talking about me when I overhear them on the bus.
  1. Snake People share stuff about social issues on Facebook all the time and it’s annoying. If you’re not going to silently work to solve these problems yourselves, the least you can do is not make me think about them.
  1. I bet they have icky slimy skin!
  1. Snake people listen to garbage music with all kinds of irritating electronic beeps and boops where the singer’s voice is always auto-tuned to sound like hissing. When they’re not playing it too loud from their boom-boxes they are walking around oblivious to the world with iPods plugged into the ear-like holes at the bases of their heads. Wake up and listen to your surroundings Sneeple!
  1. They don’t want to buy a home and hatch a clutch of eggs of their own. Who told these losers that they were supposed to hold out for the life they want and reach for their dreams?  Snake people think they are too good to settle down with a job they hate in a house they can’t afford with a spouse they don’t love.
  1. They think just because they don’t have hip bones it’s okay for them to walk around with their pants lower than their underwear. You don’t look “swag” kids, you look like you’re too lazy to find clothes that fit your weird serpentine anatomy.

Snake people, lack of feet is no excuse for not pulling yourself up by your bootstraps.

readme Experiences True Terror at Haunted House Aimed at Millennial Demographic

The Haunted House / Das Geisterhaus

To celebrate Halloween, readme decided to go through a new haunted house it found, known as the “Haunted House for the 21st Century.” The outside looked nice enough, until a motion-activated light suddenly turned on, illuminating a foreclosure sign. Feeling a growing sense of dread, readme bravely entered.


The first room had a handful of people sitting around watching one of the numerous spinoffs of Paranormal Activity. The fact that people still watch those things was scary enough, but then one by one, the movie-watchers began coughing. readme backed away, but not before hearing one of them gasp, “I’ve got ebola…”


The next room had a couch fort built in one corner, where a group of men and women in khaki and camo clutched guns to their chests. “Don’t come any closer!” they shouted shrilly. “We don’t want to get the ebola! Or the gay! Or the science!” Sidling along the wall, readme made it to the other door with only a warning shot.


Heart pounding, readme was reassured when it saw that the next room wasn’t too scary. Just two old men in suits, staring at each other over a chessboard. It wasn’t until readme noticed the unmoving grandfather clock behind them, with the hands point to just before midnight, which was marked “DOOMSDAY.” The pendulum was marked with the atomic symbol, and each of the chess players had a nametag: one was labeled Uncle Sam, and the other, simply Comrade. readme jumped when its watch beeped the hour, and it moved on with a nuclear sense of dread.


At the next juncture, there was a choice of two doors. To the left was the path for non-whites, and to the right was for whites. readme, being a black-and-white newspaper, was unsure which to choose, until it caught a glimpse of a police officer with a gun waiting in the dark beyond the left path. readme quickly scuttled towards the whites door, not wanting to know what was beyond the other threshold.


After a truly uneventful hallway, readme came into a room full of sand. Figures wearing black robes and waving knives were shouting something about “Death to America,” but what really raised readme’s pulse was the robotic snake that crawled up the side of the sand pile readme was standing on.


Finally, the end of the haunted house approached. However, before exiting, there was an alcove containing stacks of hundred-dollar bills, piles of precious gemstones, and a squalling baby that appeared to be someone’s firstborn. The sign dangling above proclaimed that this treasure trove was the amount you owed, beginning six months after you graduated from the haunted institution.