The Editor's Mess

Ladies and gentlemen, and those who can still hear me after spending all night in that club.  That drug cocktail made the 80s look like the 50s didn't it?  Good morning!  We're all still pretty high.

Today marks a milestone in your journey to both adulthood and temporary sobriety. The times they are a-changing, in the immortal words of your grandparents, and boy do those words still ring true. But these times are not imbued with the hope that comes from righteous social change, inclusive goals and a global view of humanity.  Oh no, flower child.

These times are considerably darker and stupid. You will be the first of your generation to graduate in the Trump years, which started, as these things do with a questionable election thanks to widespread interference by a foreign power. But the voters spoke, at least some of them. How many of you voted?

[sparse hands raise weakly]

Well there you go. At least 12 of your classmates decided to wade out of the haze of bong smoke and Adderol to stumble to the polling center on campus. The other 900 of you apparently didn't get that email.  Probably for the best, it would've been the wrong polling place thanks to Russia.

Legally, therefore, you got yourself a new president, by far the least qualified for the position than literally anybody else running, including that former porn star from the Free Love Workers Party. I say he's your president as I am, for tax purposes, no longer considered a U.S. citizen, and I'd like to thank the highly accommodating officials in Belize for all they've done. John McAfee's old place went for literally pennies on the dollar, and I know a tax haven when I see one.

But back to you, you guys without a tax haven of your very own yet. You, well.  Yeah things don't look so hot for you.

Thanks to your president's Flintstonian approach to domestic and foreign policy, the prospects of economic depression and global thermonuclear war have been pulled from the trash-heap of history and restored to our collective nightmares via Twitter. This guy could Tweet us into a shooting war any day now, either by direct incompetence or indirect buffoonery, so you better brace yourself for whatever comes our way.  Never have so many been held hostage by so few with so little on the ball.  About the only consolidation I can offer you is the observation that, in the end, if you live anywhere near where Trump calls home, you're probably safe.  The one person he's incredibly vested in saving is himself, so, so long as you stick close to him, you're probably outside the blast radius.

Don't worry, you'll be travelling light and able to move fast, without the burden of employment or financial security bogging you down.

For those few who can't follow this guy around, I'd look for a nearby bomb shelter and start prepping heavily. You'll need the supplies after the economy collapses, due to war or idiocy, so I'd suggest getting a move on NOW.

Now, at this point I'd normally offer some helpful advice for you aspiring job applicants, looking to clog Indeed searching for social media corporate gigs and any other job that lets you sit on Twitter all day watching the cat videos tweeted to your company's support account.  However, today I admit, I've got nothing.  These are your Nixon years, filled with hopeless cynicism about government and a general distrust for anyone in positions of authority.  Nixon was the epitome of narrow self interest and Machiavellian back-room dealing. Your guy is a reality T.V. buffoon sputtering sentence fragments, but to each his own. 

You alone will have to deal with this.  Filmmakers in the 70s used that zeitgeist to author scathing indictments of their times, like "Network," "All The President's Men," and "Dog Day Afternoon."  Your generation will now decide how to respond.  My guess is that it will involve Melissa McCarthy squatting in a sink.

My other guess is that all of you who haven't already joined a "resist" coalition are anxiously hoping to sell out A.S.A.P. before all those student loans come back to roost.  Selling out is the fastest way to fulfilling all those dreams planted by marketing teams throughout your entire life.  What's the point of living if you can't live in something featured in a magazine spread, right?

My advice: aim lower.  Much lower.  You're not going to live in a magazine spread unless the New Yorker does a "homeless shelter" issue.

Hearing the Verve's "Bitter Sweet Symphony," I realize that this too has come to an end.  It's my questionable pleasure to present the class of 2017 to you, madam president and the sobering trustees.  Good luck guys.  You're going to need it.