Rich Brats, Poor Brats
Couldn’t help but notice the congruency between the Horace Mann brats (“many famous people send their children there”, as R. Newman says in “My Life Is Good”) who are written about in the cover article of last week’s NY Magazine, and the Florida white trash who lured a cheerleader into a house, beat her silly, taped it, and posted it on You Tube in the hopes of becoming famous. The Horace Mann kids went online and dissed each other something fierce as well as getting extra-wicked with faculty members whose homework probably took time away from shopping at Barney’s. Poor babies.
Their choice of weapons were different, but words wielded by bright brats can do as much damage as sticks and stones these days. The enablers were the same: parents whose darling little ones couldn’t possibly be doing anything awful, and how dare you authority types take my precious and perfect one to task, especially since you same authority types could see these transgressions coming a mile away and stood around whistling, in one case Dixie, in the other New York, New York.
At their very core, the only difference between the players is whether they ride around in pickup trucks or limos. The law may arrest one bunch while the other just gets a scolding at home, if that, but last I looked, fair wasn’t up there in the Top 10 of how the world works.
Maybe the Florida kids could do some community service by smacking around their northeastern brethren.
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Being at one time a “white trasher” himself, The Falcon – born and bred in the same town they shot the movie “Deer Hunter,” must relate to LK that children of W.T.’s very seldom walk away unscathed from any stunt pulled. The Falcon’s old man still proudly carries the callouses on his hand – Palm-Gitmo – generated from The Falcon’s posterior. Although not attempting to make the case that the richy rich kids get their BMW’s grounded while the trailer crowd get strapped, hit in the head, bed-without-suppered, etc., The Falcon being now CEO of his own crew of 2, recognizes that there is a singular blame to be showered on the parents. We Boomers bought the Dr. Spock load, sold it to whiney social workers, and thereby rendered ourselves helpless criminals if we smacked the kiddies. All the while, our precious ones cried, “YAHOO!” (see Yahoo.com) This was akin to telling Jeff Dahmer or Chuck Manson “Now, guys…that was not a nice thing to do to those people. Next time, I hope you two think before you act or you can both forget about soccer practice next week!” It is the job of the parent to import positive direction, while being supportive andddddddddd IN CHARGE.