Like every day in the work week, I was riding the subway this morning, wearing my khakis and tie and trying not to make eye contact with anyone.
Then this girl got on. Wearing tight pants and a leopard print halter top and matching leopard print hair. All young and hot and shit. Thinking she’s so punk rock.
No one was sitting next to me, probably because of my thick thighs that breach the adjacent seats, but she didn’t fucking care. She sat down next to me.
Yeah, for a minute, or maybe the whole subway ride, I was turned on. Her young thigh pressed against mine combined with the subway vibrations was quite the boner concoction.
But she was lame, probably going somewhere pointless, like a protest, or maybe just going home after an all-night fuck session with some boring Brooklyn fashion band loser.
She turned on her iPod (yeah, new technology how punk rock!) and I heard, faintly, some Le Tigre. Oh yeah, that’s real punk rock. Le Tigre. Aren’t they ghostwriting Lindsay Lohan’s songs now? Cmon.
I tried to ignore her, and kept reading my press clippings on how Sarbanes-Oxley will affect the accounting community. This is real shit I’m reading, not some ridiculously immature and disposable issue of Maximumnroll. I’ve grown up, and I’m still cool. I don’t need to wave around some lame issue of Punk Planet or Razorcake. I don’t need to blast Le Tigre to prove my punkness. I am an office manager, heading to a very important accounting firm that you may or may not have heard of (though you should), and the shit I do is far more important than eating tofu and worrying about Anti-Flag signing to a major.
This girl next to me, acting all cool and punk rock. What does she know about hotly debated IRS regulations? What does she know about proposed laws that could affect estate taxes?
Probably nothing. She probably doesn’t think about anything except how to look cool and listlessly apathetic and sexy. What a flake. What a mindless drone.
She’ll probably go home, pass out from being so cool, sleep for awhile, wake up and drink some beer for a few hours. Without showering or changing her clothes. Then go out and wander around, kill time before the next “punk show.” Punk shows, what a joke. A bunch of dumb kids pumping their fists for a couple of hours so they can feel good about themselves. Just a bunch of white, lame suburban kids.
I’ve got things to do. I’m important. I have checks to sign, expense reports to review, and bank statements to reconcile. There is an actual place that needs me, needs my skills, my thoughts, my intelligence. I’m productive, I get things done. Is that not cool? Is that not punk rock for you?
Go read your stories in the punk zine about being poor and drunk and punk. White kids with nothing to do and complaining about it. That’s not punk, that’s just boring. Pepper your life with moronic nostalgia and bad music and it’s still a boring, pile of meaningless garbage. Meanwhile, I’ve got a job to go to and a wife to come home to. I’ve got a mortgage to pay off, credit card debt, and other important responsibilities.
So you tell me who is more punk rock? The apathetic lame teenager or the cool fuckin accountant who’s always got a ledger with journal entries waiting for him?
That’s right. Fuck you, stupid punks of the world. Go live your lame, boring lives. And when you get tired of being oh-so-trendy, when you finally grow up a little bit, when you finally realize that there’s more to life than wasting it… MAYBE there will be a place for you in the accounting world. And maybe then you’ll be as cool as me.