Asbestos Hearts, Liquor is Quicker + Double Barrels: A Gen-X Christmas Story
Allow me to curb-stomp (in steel-toe boots forged from history, lawn darts, and spite) the younger generations—bless their F-R-A-G-I-L-E little hearts—who sob over every plastic “micro-aggression” while role-playing in matching reindeer onesies and live-streaming their oh-so-misguided everything for social media. Because nothing screams “fearsome warrior” like ugly-crying on camera over a wrong pronoun or a stranger's opinion. For what? I have no idea—and don't care either.
I know, I know—they weren’t even a regrettable glint in daddy’s participation-trophy eye yet. How could they possibly comprehend a real Gen-X Christmas? Buckle up, buttercups, Auntie’s about to take you for a Christmas Eve moonlight ride.
It was “curated holiday magic” for dark-humored misfits: the future leave-us-the-hell-alone, thrive-in-chaos, beautiful (and perfectly gory) agents of America. We grew brains marinated in common sense and actual real-life experience (you know, experiences that build wisdom instead of therapy co-pays, morons). We cultivated the “We’re riding this rickety-ass, guardrail-free roller-coaster of life to the bitter end—hands up, middle fingers higher—LFG!” attitude. Deep inside beats an abyss of strength, ready to hold the line, stare down life's storms, and snarl through laughing gritted teeth, “Is that all ya got?”—unlike some folks who need a safe space, a comfort puppy, and a fainting couch after one mean word. A word, FFS.
Our precious little asbestos-laced hearts got way more out of Christmas than most generations ever will. We received real gifts and experiences that still pay dividends today. We're full of scar tissue. Hard-earned, ugly, functional scar tissue that lets us keep moving when everything else is on fire.
We were the original free-range kids—latchkey legends dropped off at life’s doorstep with a “figure it out” and a pat on the ass. No GPS trackers, no amber alerts. If you didn’t come home until the streetlights flickered on, nobody panicked; they just assumed you were busy learning how not to die. And we did. Repeatedly.
That’s why we’re the “fuck around and find out” generation in the best and worst ways. We fucked around and we absolutely found out about consequences. Then we adapted, got smarter, and kept going. We still come back for more!
Here’s a small sampler of our childhoods (try not to faint, darlings):
▪︎ Sliced, diced, and second-degree burns from medieval ice skates sharp enough to perform an emergency tracheotomy mid-face-plant. Taught us to balance life on a razor’s edge—like hell’s own ice-capades. It’s called coping—Google it if you're confused, worm-heads.
▪︎ Quality time hanging lights with Dad (because we KNOW they don’t hang themselves) while he chain-smoked and cursed icicles like they owed him money. Ladder safety tip? “Don’t fall, dumbass.” Character building—they said it would be fun. You learned fast or you learned the hard way—usually both.
▪︎ Lockjaw or blood poisoning from the tree house we built with “borrowed” lumber and rusty nails: our closest thing to a “safe space,” you little delicate flowers… until it collapsed and murdered the nativity scene in cold blood. Then we rebuilt it. Twice. For fun. Resilience? It’s the middle finger you give the universe while you’re duct-taping your life back together. We brought it back in style—y'all need to get you some!
▪︎ Lifelong suspicious-AF pattern-recognition from Aunt What’s-Her-Face’s radioactive green Jell-O mold with those unnatural suspended olives that stared into your soul and whispered, “Trust no one, kid”—while George Carlin’s voice echoed: “Question everything.” We earned our PhD in distrust. You’re welcome, punks.
▪︎ Sledding down suicide hills on trash-can lids or "borrowed" cafeteria trays: no helmets, no pads, no fear, straight into the frozen creek. Natural selection was Santa, you warning-label-needing, Tide-Pod-cinnamon-sniffing twits. Common sense? Umm yeah, we wish it was actually common.
▪︎ Eggnog that was 90%+ bourbon. Kids got the virgin version… until we spiked it ourselves at age seven. Problem-solving savages in training—still good-hearted enough to hold your hair and make fun of you when you puked. Multitasking even as youngsters.
▪︎ “Helicopter parent”? Hahahaha! Gen-X translation: the actual chopper that showed up after we blew up a mailbox (or five) with M-80s. Accountability—wild concept for the adult toddlers currently rage-tapping their highchairs. Gentle reminder: GFY!
We knowingly (and unknowingly) loved every unhinged, glorious, hazardous, borderline (and sometimes full-on) felonious, “holy shit we’re still alive” minute of it. Because that’s how legends are forged, kids.
And exactly why we’re the last generation precision-built to learn from and handle the world’s mess. We’re still standing, still swinging, still give zero fucks about pesky feelings and what others think. We're about logic and reason; our tolerance for anything less is dead.
We stay locked, loaded, ("say hello to my little friend" ) and ready to burn every last ounce of rot to the ground—all while blasting history’s best music and quoting movies that make you clutch your dime-store pearls.
We’re begging for the chance to show you exactly what we mean—like Doc Holliday drawling, “Say when.”
Then we’ll char-roast marshmallows on the ashes while the Founders’ words light up the night sky like sparks from your gibbeting cages clinking together in the breeze—fine-tuned like the most glorious American symphony ever heard. And as y’all rattle in horror, we’ll smile, crack some yippee-ki-yay remarks, maybe even strum a banjo or two.
We don’t break and won't back down. We bend, crack, scar, and press on.
Because that's who we are and how we roll—we have a quiet understanding that the world doesn’t owe you shit. So we built armor out of sarcasm, skepticism, and a refusal to quit that’s baked into our DNA. We pull up our bootstraps, go through problems, not around them. And no matter what, we never give up—"was it over when the Germans bombed Pearl Harbor?"
Exactly!
We came into this world kicking and screaming while covered in someone else's blood, and have no problem going out the same way.
While none of us can go back and change the beginning, we can certainly start here and change the ending. In a world that’s getting softer by the minute, someone has to be the ones who still know how to take a hit and get back up laughing. No tapping out of this battle, it's a long way to the top of Evermore—LFG!
Now put that in your shitty "happy holidays" pipe—smoke it and choke!
Merry Christmas, y'all!
"Hallelujah! Holy shit! Where's the Tylenol?" 😁🎄💜✨️
