Ya know, the more I interact with people actually born between 1985-1995, the more I realize these articles are horseshiat.

Didn't read, too busy fapping.

CygnusDarius: Stop using buzzwords! We're not children!

Admittedly, we do need a less gender-specific word for "manchild".

boring.

Because in America, the left wants to treat children like adults, and the right wants to treat adults like children, so in the end, we're all screwed.

That's ok , they will grow up quickly once they hit the job market ,or should I say nonexistent job market and realize older, responsible people are taking all of the great jobs. Or they can just live with their mom all of their lives like Italian men have been doing for ages.

So, according to the article, a young child from a primitive society acted remarkably mature for her age...

Wow, I can't imagine why.

Next you'll be telling me that they get married young and die young, too.

Synopsis: American young adults are less self-sufficient and less motivated than people who hunter-gather for survival.

/Third World problems

Spoiled children grow up to be pretentious douche bags who write for and read the New Yorker.

TFA's headline:





/have you stopped beating your wife?

farkingismybusiness: TLDR. Anyone want to sum it up for me?

Boomers fail again, film at 11.

And?

Ow! That was my feelings!: farkingismybusiness: TLDR. Anyone want to sum it up for me?

Boomers fail again, film at 11.

People like you are the problem. Let him read his own farking article if he wants to know what it is about.

Couldn't read the article because it didn't format on my iPhone... this is bullsh*t, I'm going to ask my dad for an iPad because I swear it's like I'm living in a third-world country at this point.

farkingismybusiness: TLDR. Anyone want to sum it up for me?

New Yorker wonders why we're spoiling kids, having clearly never met any kids that aren't upper-class from New York or LA. Writes an article expressing First World guilt.

My father's family name being Pirrip, and my Christian name Philip, my infant tongue could make of both names nothing longer or more explicit than Pip. So, I called myself Pip, and came to be called Pip.

I give Pirrip as my father's family name, on the authority of his tombstone and my sister - Mrs. Joe Gargery, who married the blacksmith. As I never saw my father or my mother, and never saw any likeness of either of them (for their days were long before the days of photographs), my first fancies regarding what they were like, were unreasonably derived from their tombstones. The shape of the letters on my father's, gave me an odd idea that he was a square, stout, dark man, with curly black hair. From the character and turn of the inscription, "Also Georgiana Wife of the Above," I drew a childish conclusion that my mother was freckled and sickly. To five little stone lozenges, each about a foot and a half long, which were arranged in a neat row beside their grave, and were sacred to the memory of five little brothers of mine - who gave up trying to get a living, exceedingly early in that universal struggle - I am indebted for a belief I religiously entertained that they had all been born on their backs with their hands in their trousers-pockets, and had never taken them out in this state of existence.

Ours was the marsh country, down by the river, within, as the river wound, twenty miles of the sea. My first most vivid and broad impression of the identity of things, seems to me to have been gained on a memorable raw afternoon towards evening. At such a time I found out for certain, that this bleak place overgrown with nettles was the churchyard; and that Philip Pirrip, late of this parish, and also Georgiana wife of the above, were dead and buried; and that Alexander, Bartholomew, Abraham, Tobias, and Roger, infant children of the aforesaid, were also dead and buried; and that the dark flat wilderness beyond the churchyard, intersected with dykes and mounds and gates, with scattered cattle feeding on it, was the marshes; and that the low leaden line beyond, was the river; and that the distant savage lair from which the wind was rushing, was the sea; and that the small bundle of shivers growing afraid of it all and beginning to cry, was Pip.

"Hold your noise!" cried a terrible voice, as a man started up from among the graves at the side of the church porch. "Keep still, you little devil, or I'll cut your throat!"

A fearful man, all in coarse grey, with a great iron on his leg. A man with no hat, and with broken shoes, and with an old rag tied round his head. A man who had been soaked in water, and smothered in mud, and lamed by stones, and cut by flints, and stung by nettles, and torn by briars; who limped, and shivered, and glared and growled; and whose teeth chattered in his head as he seized me by the chin.

"O! Don't cut my throat, sir," I pleaded in terror. "Pray don't do it, sir."

"Tell us your name!" said the man. "Quick!"

"Pip, sir."

"Once more," said the man, staring at me. "Give it mouth!"

"Pip. Pip, sir."

"Show us where you live," said the man. "Pint out the place!"

I pointed to where our village lay, on the flat in-shore among the alder-trees and pollards, a mile or more from the church.

The man, after looking at me for a moment, turned me upside down, and emptied my pockets. There was nothing in them but a piece of bread. When the church came to itself - for he was so sudden and strong that he made it go head over heels before me, and I saw the steeple under my feet - when the church came to itself, I say, I was seated on a high tombstone, trembling, while he ate the bread ravenously.

"You young dog," said the man, licking his lips, "what fat cheeks you ha' got."

I believe they were fat, though I was at that time undersized for my years, and not strong.

"Darn me if I couldn't eat em," said the man, with a threatening shake of his head, "and if I han't half a mind to't!"

I earnestly expressed my hope that he wouldn't, and held tighter to the tombstone on which he had put me; partly, to keep myself upon it; partly, to keep myself from crying.

"Now lookee here!" said the man. "Where's your mother?"

"There, sir!" said I.

He started, made a short run, and stopped and looked over his shoulder.

"There, sir!" I timidly explained. "Also Georgiana. That's my mother."

"Oh!" said he, coming back. "And is that your father alonger your mother?"

"Yes, sir," said I; "him too; late of this parish."

"Ha!" he muttered then, considering. "Who d'ye live with - supposin' you're kindly let to live, which I han't made up my mind about?"

"My sister, sir - Mrs. Joe Gargery - wife of Joe Gargery, the blacksmith, sir."

"Blacksmith, eh?" said he. And looked down at his leg.

After darkly looking at his leg and me several times, he came closer to my tombstone, took me by both arms, and tilted me back as far as he could hold me; so that his eyes looked most powerfully down into mine, and mine looked most helplessly up into his.

"Now lookee here," he said, "the question being whether you're to be let to live. You know what a file is?"

"Yes, sir."

"And you know what wittles is?"

"Yes, sir."

After each question he tilted me over a little more, so as to give me a greater sense of helplessness and danger.

"You get me a file." He tilted me again. "And you get me wittles." He tilted me again. "You bring 'em both to me." He tilted me again. "Or I'll have your heart and liver out." He tilted me again.

I was dreadfully frightened, and so giddy that I clung to him with both hands, and said, "If you would kindly please to let me keep upright, sir, perhaps I shouldn't be sick, and perhaps I could attend more."

He gave me a most tremendous dip and roll, so that the church jumped over its own weather-cock. Then, he held me by the arms, in an upright position on the top of the stone, and went on in these fearful terms:

"You bring me, to-morrow morning early, that file and them wittles. You bring the lot to me, at that old Battery over yonder. You do it, and you never dare to say a word or dare to make a sign concerning your having seen such a person as me, or any person sumever, and you shall be let to live. You fail, or you go from my words in any partickler, no matter how small it is, and your heart and your liver shall be tore out, roasted and ate. Now, I ain't alone, as you may think I am. There's a young man hid with me, in comparison with which young man I am a Angel. That young man hears the words I speak. That young man has a secret way pecooliar to himself, of getting at a boy, and at his heart, and at his liver. It is in wain for a boy to attempt to hide himself from that young man. A boy may lock his door, may be warm in bed, may tuck himself up, may draw the clothes over his head, may think himself comfortable and safe, but that young man will softly creep and creep his way to him and tear him open. I am a-keeping that young man from harming of you at the present moment, with great difficulty. I find it wery hard to hold that young man off of your inside. Now, what do you say?"

I said that I would get him the file, and I would get him what broken bits of food I could, and I would come to him at the Battery, early in the morning.

"Say Lord strike you dead if you don't!" said the man.

I said so, and he took me down.

"Now," he pursued, "you remember what you've undertook, and you remember that young man, and you get home!"

"Goo-good night, sir," I faltered.

"Much of that!" said he, glancing about him over the cold wet flat. "I wish I was a frog. Or a eel!"

At the same time, he hugged his shuddering body in both his arms - clasping himself, as if to hold himself together - and limped towards the low church wall. As I saw him go, picking his way among the nettles, and among the brambles that bound the green mounds, he looked in my young eyes as if he were eluding the hands of the dead people, stretching up cautiously out of their graves, to get a twist upon his ankle and pull him in.

When he came to the low church wall, he got over it, like a man whose legs were numbed and stiff, and then turned round to look for me. When I saw him turning, I set my face towards home, and made the best use of my legs. But presently I looked over my shoulder, and saw him going on again towards the river, still hugging himself in both arms, and picking his way with his sore feet among the great stones dropped into the marshes here and there, for stepping-places when the rains were heavy, or the tide was in.

The marshes were just a long black horizontal line then, as I stopped to look after him; and the river was just another horizontal line, not nearly so broad nor yet so black; and the sky was just a row of long angry red lines and dense black lines intermixed. On the edge of the river I could faintly make out the only two black things in all the prospect that seemed to be standing upright; one of these was the beacon by which the sailors steered - like an unhooped cask upon a pole - an ugly thing when you were near it; the other a gibbet, with some chains hanging to it which had once held a pirate. The man was limping on towards this latter, as if he were the pirate come to life, and come down, and going back to hook himself up again. It gave me a terrible turn when I thought so; and as I saw the cattle lifting their heads to gaze after him, I wondered whether they thought so too. I looked all round for the horrible young man, and could see no signs of him. But, now I was frightened again, and ran home without stopping.

In what respect, Charlie?

Tell kids "no" when appropriate. They'll thank you later. Society too.

Something I realized in my twenties was I was never going to magically feel grownup like I assumed I would. Adulthood turned out to be amazingly like childhood, with more freedom and more responsibility. Then I looked around and realized my peers, and those who would have been adults while I was still an adolescent were no more adult than I was. "Adult" is an arbitrary distinction. The thing that are supposed trappings of adulthood can just as easily apply to children. conversely the supposed trappings of children seem to apply to a lot of adults.

Tat'dGreaser: I don't know how many times I have to blame the Baby Boomers but seriously, it's the Baby Boomers.

Actually, according to TFA, it's the Boomers' kids and grand kids who are the problem raisers.

Neotony is one of the traits you select for when you domesticate. There's no reason this shouldn't hold true to humans.

An example of DeltaPunch: Couldn't read the article because it didn't format on my iPhone... this is bullsh*t, I'm going to ask my dad for an iPad because I swear it's like I'm living in a third-world country at this point.

Lol.

(PS i finished that silly band vid, thanks again for your help & ideas)

One of our VP's kid is working in my team and I'm supposed to find him work to keep him busy. Mainly sorting cables, taking out old equipment, running boring tests, etc. He's 16 and he's great. Works hard, smart, doesn't complain. I've been hearing "kids these days" stories for so long and it's mostly bullshiat to either make us feel special or to give us something to fret about for entertainment.

The kids aren't terrible. You're just bored.

Wadded Beef: Tell kids "no" when appropriate. They'll thank you later. Society too.

Unfortunately, there is a school of parenting which has decided that the word "no" is not only never appropriate, but outright abusive.

Rent Party: Because in America, the left wants to treat children like adults, and the right wants to treat adults like children, so in the end, we're all screwed.

That's not true.

The right wants to treat children like adults if they're accused of a crime.

havocmike: Ya know, the more I interact with people actually born between 1985-1995, the more I realize these articles are horseshiat.

Actually, from my experiences with that generation, it's dead on. The girls from Orange County are the worst. They seem to have no clue how to survive unless people do things for them.

farkingismybusiness: TLDR. Anyone want to sum it up for me?

Americans should be raising their children to be Amazonian subsistence farmers.

A generation literally a trillion dollars in debt. Fewer jobs for less pay and no benefits. And the boomers wonder why they're grown children are moving back in?

more like "brolecsense"

The Amazon kid was hanging out with another family often kids are much better behaved when with the parents of others than they are with their own families.

I see nothing wrong with this. Who doesn't love the musky adultescent of Aqua Velva?

...That's what we're talking about, right?

This is either due to less pirates or less spankings.

Because we are a country that glorifies the super-rich, where you have servants or illegal immigrants do your dirty work for you, and an American shouldn't have to stoop to manual labor.

Also, critical thinking isn't taught in schools. Doing so might cause someone to question their boss's thinking, and get fired.