Dear teenagers cruising my suburb with pounding hip-hop at top volume,
I realize that you think we are A) admiring your youthful coolness and rebellion, or B) horrified by the naughty words and shaking our heads like the squares we are, or C) terrified you’re here to bust caps in our glutinous suburban asses, but I wish to disabuse you of this notion. We know all the naughty words and use them frequently. We are not particularly offended. We do not care that the lyrics are about smacking your hos around because we know all about “shock value,” having been fans of the Dead Kennedys in our day.
If you could read our minds, in fact, you would find that we are thinking, “Aw, poor kid. He must have a penis the size of a matchstick.”
I suppose, as Douglas Adams once said, telepathy would be the cruellest of social diseases.