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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A Washington bookseller I'd never heard of announced a couple of weeks ago they would purge details of a buyer's purchase upon request. This was in response to one of those 500 quickly-passed 9/11 laws which says the government can go through your sock drawer if they smell the stink of fear on you. I, for one, applaud the move. A lazy golf clap applause because even if it's a noble gesture it doesn't make a damn difference in the long run.

Just when I think people have accepted the government can get you no matter what you do, they show signs of struggling, thinking they can actually escape the Web—that's what I call it. That's mine, by the way, intellectual property.

Yes, the Web—part U.S. government, part Illuminati, all encompassing terror. Like the many-fingered centipede, the Web can put a pincer on you at any moment. The only reason you're walking around right now is because they don't give a damn if you're dead or alive. Occasionally, they think it's funny when you bitch about where the remote is because Baywatch is on in 5 minutes, but otherwise you're insignificant. Don't feel bad; so am I. Just slightly more significant at best.

If you think the government is closing its FBI file on you just because they have no store record of your recent purchase of Ass Monsters magazine, I'd love a toke of whatever you're smoking. You're delusional, Poncho. Store records are a tiny, tiny fraction of all the information they've already got on you.

Of course the government tracks everywhere you go on the Internet. If you need me to tell you that, go back to Conspiracy 101—hell, go back and your G.E.D. first, you're clearly a mook. And they don't care if you're checking out www.gayblackdicks.com, even if your wife would; they're more worried about your visits to the commune, folks. If I were you and totally lacked a spine I wouldn't come here again. Still here? I'm glad, even if I lost a bet.

Every time you go into your gym, even if it's just once a year, they have a recorder that keeps track of it. Every time you cross the street against the light or run a stop sign, there are built in sensors recording your license number (or DNA pattern) and reporting it to Washington. There's a chip under the counter at McDonald's that keeps track of how many hamburgers you've ordered—you didn't think McDonald's counted all those burgers themselves, did you? From all that information they can know everything from your political views to the estimated date of death from cholesterol-blocked arteries. But that's not all.

Okay with all that, as long as they don't know your purchases? The important stuff? Try this on for size—it's a reality suit, one size chafes all. The government has specific machines that can sort your trash, record who owned it and categorize it by importance. You think your garbage is in a landfill deep in the earth somewhere? Dream on, buddy. It's in a file cabinet in Wyoming. After all, something has to be taking up all that space, right? Your garbage is alive, well, and waiting to show up as evidence in your trial if it's ever needed by Uncle Sam.

So what are your options? You don't have any. Are you going to burn every piece of garbage? They'll be able to reconstitute it in original form, I'd guess. Or they will be soon, maybe before the end of this article. Well, I'm doing my part to thwart them as best I can—this article ends now! Boo-ya!

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"I remember quite clearly the first girl I ever kissed. I was very young and inexperienced, no older than 13. No younger than 13 either. In fact, I was 13.

She was a very self-assured woman, slightly older, around 16. She wore confidence like a dress, and she wore her dress like a dress, so it was like she was wearing two dresses, but both matched her rose-colored shoes.

Her hair was long and feathery, golden, not real gold but just blonde, though calling it 'golden' makes it sound more poetic, I like to think. Her lips were fat, naturally so, not like mine that were still fat from that playground fight with the ugly kid a day before. No, her lips were beautiful, like sweet candy wax lips and you wanted to taste but not eat because that would be disgusting.

'Do you want to kiss me?' she asked. I'm no fool, so I told her I did, though I was very nervous.

I could tell she was very reluctant, wearing a shy smile and a twinkling sparkle in her eye as she tried to play all normal about it. And, kiddies, that li'l devil I was, that 13-year-old Sampson L. Hartwig, I leaned in and planted the most fantastic kiss on her lips.

'That's an extra dollar,' she reminded me, but it was worth every penny as she put her clothes back on while I watched to make sure no flatfeet cops were cruising by."

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