Tom Brokaw is full of horse shit

Guten BLAG everyone,

Please excuse the time off lately. Our offices were closed for an arbitrary period of time in honor of Blag History Month. But we’re back now, probably!

So first off, I made some lofty promises last time regarding a part 2 article in which I would editorialize Sarah Vernon’s guest contribution. So, that first:

It wasn’t funny or engaging on any level and did not live up to the admittedly low standards for content on BLAG. It was shit. I knew it was shit before I read it, and I knew it again after I read it. Then I read it again and it was still shit. So that’s that. Enough attention for you, Sarah. If anyone else wants to contribute, I welcome submissions. Just no more from Sarah.

Moving on, I was at the barber shop last week [read: weeks ago] and learned a whole lot about old people. In fact, here’s my thesis:

The Greatest Generation is a lot like every other generation: It’s composed largely of selfish assholes.

I arrived at this conclusion during what would become a three-hour quest to make my hair look nice. During this time, I witnessed unspeakable horrors, the rock-bottom depths of human decency, and enough gore to stage a GG Allin concert (but not enough poop). I also got my hair cut.

I’ll set the stage: I show up, there are like six people waiting ahead of me. Mostly older folks.

Now I’ll fast forward to the interesting part: An old woman takes a fantastic digger off the barber shop stoop, several steps up, sucked by Earth’s gravitational magic head-first into the sidewalk. You might say that gravity doesn’t “suck” but rather “pulls.” But I think this woman (if she’s still alive) would agree that gravity sucked in this instance.

While BLAG editors don’t typically engage themselves in the affairs of “untouchables,” I rushed outside to help the woman up, taking very special care to avoid contact with her blood. As everyone knows from Science, woman blood attracts bears, and I don’t need that kind of heat brought down on me. BLAG updates are infrequent enough without introducing a “The Edge” (the 1997 film, not the 1961 pretentious guitar player) situation into my life. I would, of course, be Alec Baldwin in such a scenario. Not Anthony Hopkins (too old), or the black guy who accidentally stabs himself in the leg (too clumsy with knives).

Suffice to say, I got blood on my new coat. Because, if I may quote the sagacious Louis CK, “why the fuck would anything nice ever happen?”

Following this, we handled the injury in the custom of working class Brighton: We ushered the concussed woman into the barbershop, got her a towel to sop up her face, applied blood clotting accelerate to her head, offered her alcohol to thin the blood, and then tried as best we could to totally ignore her as she occasionally groaned, complained about her headache, and stepped out to the stoop over and over again, terrifyingly, to self-medicate her injury with cigarettes. I can only assume she stubbed them out on her brow to cauterize the wound, because she eventually stopped bleeding.

So, why was this (Percocet addled? Probably.) woman even at a men’s barbershop? Well, that’s simple. She was waiting for her old, surly husband to get his hair cut. And she continued to wait, for a staggering 45 minutes, until her husband got his hair cut before driving her to the hospital – presumably. Oh, and some other old dude cut him in line because he didn’t want to wait. Even though the guy’s wife was sitting there, bleeding – and probably not just externally. You’d be hard-pressed to find another such perfect example of disregard for the value of human life expressed with such banality and ennui this side of Africa. Tom Brokaw is full of horse shit – old people are terrible.

Brokaw's book

It's out of frame, but the GI is actually strangling that woman.

Happy ending, though: The blood came out of my coat with a little bit of tap water. Also, it only attracted a black bear (sort of), but I dealt with that handily.*

Also, I wrote like half of this on my phone while waiting in the same barbershop for my next haircut. That’s called time management. Great job, me.


*Apologies to whoever owned the black Newfoundland that I impaled on a sharpened log. I gave it a proper snow-burial, so it’ll turn up in a couple of weeks.

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