Bloody Youth of Today!

I was in line in a coffee shop, and so were they!

Harry Hogg
4 min readJul 9, 2024
Photo by Helena Lopes on Unsplash

I was called an old fart today.

They say the truth hurts. I could have stomached it and maybe tried to do something about it, except that the young man addressing me didn’t have a whole lot holding up his pants, which meant his boxers were showing four inches above the waistband.

His pals dressed similarly, so one must assume this is a fashion. I wasn’t fazed by the pin through his eyebrow, having been in Africa on many occasions, where that same pin, somewhat larger, might ordinarily have been a sign of courage.

I can’t for the life of me decide which word hurt the most, the ‘old’ or the ‘fart’. Having been condemned by this youth and standing there in shame and reproach after having asked them to quiet down their language in the line, I realized that this world is full of nothing but sweet stupidities.

I was nominated for this title after asserting my position in a line while waiting for coffee at Starbucks. I could have taken a step back and allowed the droopy pants leader to keep assertiveness, thereby avoiding any confrontation, but hey, I’ve earned the right to be in my place.

I’m still alive, even if my fire is worthless, my anger ridiculous, and no droopy-panted needledick is going to take my dignity away.

I would guess the three were between the ages of sixteen and eighteen. All had the normal African mutilations, their favourite rock bands tattooed on their arms, but for one, the leader, who instead had some religious icon on the back of his hand.

Truth be told, I never saw anyone who looked so much like Jesus Christ! Wearing all white, with long brown hair, standing in the curve of a colourful line of oddballs waiting for their Mochas. But look, if Jesus Christ were going to return, He surely wouldn’t associate himself with such ugly brutes as these companions, would He?

‘Come unto me all of you, even the little children, let me console you.’

Doubtless, at some point, his parents had ruined his life. Just this once, I wanted to create a magic spell that would have these young men leaping out of their bodies and taking a good, hard look at themselves. You know, make some whispered command and then, in a cloud of smoke, take control of their hearts.

What noble ambitions I have.

Having got my coffee, I left them sniggering at something they found amusing. I sneered at the Jesus look-a-like and left. I was halfway to my car when I heard a call from behind:

“Hey, mister.”

I thought, oh, no, here we go again, more trouble. The youth ran up to me.

“You left this on the counter.” He handed me my wallet.

I stupidly opened the wallet in front of him.

“It’s all there, mister, we ain’t that bad.”

I looked into his eyes; they were the brightest blue in a face framed with long brown wavy hair. I thanked him. He turned, heading back toward the Starbucks.

“Thank you, lad,” I called out.

He didn’t look back, just raised his arm.

I stood at my car for a moment before opening the door. It’s just that with age and pre-conceived notions, and youthful regrets, I find of late that I am nothing more than a presumptuous old fart!

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Harry Hogg

Ex Greenpeace, writing since a teenager. Will be writing ‘Lori Tales’ exclusively for JK Talla Publishing in the Spring of 2025