They are hooking up. The teens.
Teens are texting. They take off their shirts and pants and stand in front of mirrors.
They're doing it again. Those teens. They hold up cameras and transmit their genitals to each other. Without us. Without you. They go against the wishes of their mothers and fathers. They say bad words in secret.
The teens are behaving in strange ways. They do not speak in words we understand. The music they listen to is a single, oscillating note. They wear hoods with no hole for the mouth. They are getting off to it. They are becoming erect.
Mom and dad, what are your teens up to? Why do they go into their rooms? Why are they on the computer late at night? What are they searching for in the black glass? Why did you let them bring the black glass into your house?
Watch what they are doing. Let them know you are reading their emails even though they use words and characters alien to you.
Hook up culture is out of control. They are placing their hands into shared vessels of water. They are trading ribbons. Making crosses in sand. Hooking it up. Getting it on.
The teens are doing it. The bad thing. The forbidden thing. In the brokeback barn, beneath a bone white moon. Congregating. Ignoring decency. Ignoring the wisdom of past generations. Chewing with their mouth open. Staring into the black glass.
Is it drugs? Is it R-rated movies? Is it video games? Is it the featureless golems that stride through our cities? Is it the cold that seeps into us at night, like the hand of a ghost upon our chest, like the realization of our inevitable doom? Is it the black glass? Is it so-called "gangsta rap" lyrics?
The teens are standing in rows, unmoving. They do not react to our words, our rules, or our screaming. We try to talk to them and they fade in and out of colors. The teens are driving cars without obeying the posted speed limit. The teens are sloughing off fingers and toes. Becoming something terrible. The teens are doing it.
Mom and dad, don't be afraid to snoop on your teens. Bore holes in the walls. Chip their vibes. UV tag their underwear. Inject radioactive dyes into their scalp so the satellites can track them.
Appeal to the featureless golems. Give them flowers, iron, and blood. Destroy your possessions. Break down every wall.
The teens must be stopped. Their ways must be tamed. The teens are going to do it. You know what I mean. Act quickly, before it happens. Before it's too late. Before it's...
It's over now. The teens are gone. They have lifted like a fog from our cities, from our nations. The teens have left us, all at once. You feel guilty now, wandering the streets where everyone is obeying the laws, talking in English, in calm English, and listening to sensible music. Did you make them leave?
Yes, you realize, standing side by side, mother and father, looking at the dusty beds and sex posters. At the unused vibes. At the unsent tit pics and unposted hook-up ads. The teens are gone. Forever. Into the black glass. A door you cannot enter. A club that turns you away.
It's okay. We are young. We can start over. We can make more teens. Teach them the right ways. Warn them about sexting.
It will be different this time.
The perfect addition to my living room. The hardy resin exterior is fantastic, because I can just hose it down to remove all the raccoon dung that tends to accumulate.
Now with the sun and the warmth and the generally pleasant atmosphere, you can no longer blame the weather for why you've spent the last sixteen hours sitting inside. You'll need to stay on your toes if you want to stay in your chair.
There's a new Tony Hawk game in town, and it has projectiles. ...?
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