80's Revival Threatens Future of Civilization

ASA scientists met with a crack team of cultural anthropologists in New York today to discuss the trend of 1980's revivalism, a fad now determined to be a serious threat to the survival of the human race if not brought under control within the next seven years.

"I'd say we've got five years, seven at the outside, before we devolve into marrow-eating cave people once again. Should this trend continue unchecked at it's current rate, the human race is whipped, and whipped good," commented Daniel Furgelman, cultural director for the Smithsonian Institute.

"And if I hear 'Come On Eileen' one more time, I'm going to fucking puke," added Furgelman.

Spin Magazine columnist Kirk Jaded explains the phenomenon:

"It started, of course, with the 80's themselves. The culture of the day was not a threat at the time since it was confined safely to the actual decade of the 1980's. Only later, in the mid-90's, with the advent of Rhino Records' "Awesome 80's" CD collection, did the cultural zeitgeist begin to pull a massive U-turn and head back to it's unfortunate past. Cover versions of 80's standards by irresponsible alternative groups like Save Ferris, Marilyn Manson, Hole and Reel Big Fish only compounded the problem, fooling an entire generation of young music fans into thinking that the 80's were actually, as the youth are fond of saying, 'cool'. This has sounded a death knoll for one of the greatest civilizations ever to walk the face of the earth."

Today's meeting of the CFGOI (The Committee to Fucking Get On With It) was to act as a think-tank to develop means of turning around the current trend. Demonstrators picketed in front of the Committee's headquarters, most of whom admitted to being VH1 stockholders. Documented proposals included Public Service Announcements from prominent 80's figures like Kirk Cameron and Howard Jones to warn kids of the dangers of thinking the 80's were cool, the silencing of Mexican radio and constant airings of the television programs "Mama's Family" and "Small Wonder" in America's classrooms.

"Education is the key," stated Manley Farber, the committee's loudmouth. "If we bring enough kids into actual contact with Boy George, we may just have this thing licked."

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I thought I would celebrate my return to a regular column with a timely complaint—a beyond timely complaint even: I intensely dislike spandex.

Who exactly thought we needed this impertinent fabric? I recall we survived the '70s perfectly fine with only denim and polyester; the next day it's the 1980s, and suddenly we're immersed in a spandex society. Oh, I'm a 1980s fitness nut—I can't work out in burlap. Gingham is too good for me. I will not rest until I've found the perfect sycophantic fabric to kiss my ass all through my squat thrusts.

As if the world was sitting up at night, wondering what your particular camel toe looks like. And if you're the type of man who prefers to see as much of the female anatomy as possible, consider this: before the advent of spandex leggings, you could see the legs themselves. That's right, bare skin. How exactly is this an advantage for you men? I call "rip-off!" I sincerely hope you boys will join me in that call.

I submit, daring though my suggestion may be, spandex has brought nothing to this world. Sure, Batman could frighten the hell out of the cowardly superstitious criminal kind with his well-toned physique, but how did spandex help Robin? Or the rest of us, for that matter? Now any time we are dependent on focusing our minds on man-business, we run the risk of sexual thoughts pervading us at any given moment with a feminine physique perfectly outlined in lime green materials. Thoughts of baseball can't be conjured fast enough. Good people, I say it's a genuine threat.

I find the womanly shapes as appealing as any man, I admit that freely. But it doesn't mean I want my eyes popping in and out of their sockets like some Tex Avery character while I'm trying to peruse the stock market. I have a lot of money invested in things in the world, and none of them have to do with stunningly curvaceous asses of a hot pink hue. One of these days the law will change and you teasing harlots will be financially responsible for every time you distract me and cause me to accidentally invest my money in ludditesonline.com.

Tell me, what happened to the good old days? I remember well a time a man could walk down the street and only find himself fixated on thoughts of sex a mere five to six times in the course of a minute. All this, of course, without any visual stimulation—unless you were one of those men who found wide-brimmed bonnets exciting. And many of us did. No, in those glory days you had to don a raincoat and purposely stumble into a theater of indecent movies completely by accident. Things were much more discreet in those days, and we all preferred it that way. If you ran into an associate in the line, you had to pretend you were looking for that new John Ford movie that had just hit the theaters, and you had pocketed a half-roll of pennies in case they sold candy. We all knew it was pretense to stimulate the manly function of a solo reproductive act, and we all kept quiet about it. It was just polite society.

Those were the halcyon days when gyms were strictly reserved for tubby joes sweating off the fat in a steam cabinet, or wiggling them off with a giant rubber band that would shake them violently. Certainly not the place for stimulating thoughts—you were lucky if you could eat again afterwards. Then they let the women in and, surprise, surprise, everyone's obese now. We should all know why—with spandex around to remind us of the existence of the opposite sex, there's only one muscle that's getting a workout these days. That's right. Your dirty mind.

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Uproar has swept over me, good people. You want to know why? You want to know WHY? I can't hear you! That's better.

This morning, my good wife of thirty years, Arvelyn, suggested maybe it's time we possibly consider getting a dog if that's okay with me. Why, I was truncheoned! How dare she bring a new family member into our little fold without consulting me!

Sure, we've had discussions like this before: parakeets, goldfish, rats that don't live in the walls. There was one time Arvelyn was pretty adamant about getting a cock, and I never thought I'd wear her down. But eventually logic prevailed and with the price of a chicken coop and feed continually skyrocketing, she realized it was just a fantasy.

And now this dog thing rears its ugly cold-nosed head. From the sheer force of her words—"I think I'd like a dog, Rokwell,"—I don't think she'll be swayed. It may even be pointless trying. But even if we end up getting the dog, I don't like the way she's carried out this campaign of propaganda and brute force.

In the past we've sat down at the family table for these sort of discussions—I in my great big chair, Arvelyn in her slightly smaller chair, Makeshift, our cat, in his tiny chair that's just right. And we've talked about this like adults, at least Arvelyn and I have, Makeshift sometimes just licks his butt in quiet dissention. But these rough and tumble guerrilla tactics don't sit very well on the head of Rokwell T. Finger.

I dread the thought of it now: playing fetch, drinking out of the toilet, dropping feces left and right—all of that will have to stop once I assume the responsibility of dog ownership. Not to mention the miniature birthday parties with the dog wearing a tiny tux and I have to eat whatever kind of cake he chooses, even if it's chocolate swirl or marble—I will not have it, good people. Again—I. Will. Not. Have. It.

I think in the meantime I will put an ad in the paper, to stall Arvelyn's dog search. She will be convinced I'm all for it, but the ad will have such high expectations that no dog could possibly live up to it. A sample would read:

"WANTED: Empowered, professional-minded canine with own dish. Must be able to fetch, cartwheel, drive large-engine truck, shake, converse at length on the works of Victor Hugo, proficient in MS Word, Excel, Lotus, Quark X-Press. Starting salary of belly-scratchin' and Kibbles 'N' Bits 'N' Bits 'N' Bits. Must read ad and respond in person. No Schitzus."

Ha! I'd like to see the dog who could fit that bill.

And if one does give us a call… God help us all.

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