Leaflet Warfare

Sometimes it slips from mind — that chore part of this gen-er-ation — and after a long period of thus, the realisation that you, in fact, are, comes as an elated, elevated shock. Suddenly you stare out windows with a new sense of verve, and the drizzle and sunshine present nothing in the way of dispelling. Opportunities abound. You're part of the Y. Superficially, that's like being the previous one but with one less leg, but on the deep (lake-wise) level, it's wholly, uncompromisingly, one-thing's-for-surely above all prior letter-branded booms. So open the door. Look out at the salt, hands on hip, and inhale.

What to do? Oh, live with the similarly-minded in squalid ecstasy; climb very small mountains; rally together against carnivores and anti-terrorists. There's so much big, fat choice afforded us. What if I take this? What will I do when I'm ugly? What if I die tonight? With that in mind, I (and we!) may as well party like it was seven years ago. Don't you feel the rush? The rush of change. The rush of revolution. We'll succeed where every single hitherto failed. We'll fuck on the lawn. We'll mercy our enemies. We'll upthrow the gov. and undersell the tax.

The only way we can move forward is to forget the failures of the past. Come, all you Y Sisters, and roll your fillious fannies this way, with the roosters and the Movement. When we look back, crusted though we may be, we'll see Love, Spirit & Revolution, and we'll shed for nostalgia! We had an impact. Who else could you say that for? We may, may, be the last who do.

The Great Novel, we'll all write, upon ancient steps, clawed together as Kerry's road-trip rambling has taught us. And the dry, the half-dead, the gray, the bald will be splashed into irrelevance, like they should have been all along. If we's gonna lead, we's gonna have hair. Show it, grow it, know it. It won't get better without it. And the only way we'll win is if the women (say it so it rhymes) lower their standards, making everyone, essentially, equal. The next time I ask, say Yes! and put the boot up those conservative wingers with a swift lift of the skirt, and a nudge of your Y Sister charm.