They wouldn't say “Eat My Shorts!” or “As If.”
They’d mention President Bush.(Not the one known by the single initial.) While they’d be open to engaging in healthy debate regarding his pragmatic and conservative approach to foreign affairs, sourcing The End of the Cold War, significant attention would also be paid to the banning of broccoli on Air Force One. Shameless disobedience of his mother, who reportedly made H.W. eat it as a child.
With air-cushioned soles resting on a neon-pink inflatable love seat, they would belt out “Girl You Know It’s True,” but they’d insist their tone-deaf rendition came from a pair of smelly All Stars.
Few would think it still funny, but they’d make a Lorena Bobbitt joke anyway.
They'd agree that keeping a dress (of any color) stained with bodily fluids (no matter the source) is gross and a little disturbing.
Like the other ninety-five million viewers across the nation, they’d admit they couldn’t look away from the white Bronco. Yes, they’d overused the expression “If it doesn’t fit, you must acquit.” Yes, they’d acknowledge there was too much publicity. Yes, they would condemn Fuhrman. Of course they'd think he was guilty.
That devastating image of the Oklahoma City fireman cradling the baby girl is something they’d guarantee can’t be scrubbed from their memory.
They would maintain Kurt Cobain wore a pair just like them, wonderfully heavy with signature yellow Z stitch. (They’ve never had the stomach or the heart to view any of the crime scene photos. They’ve never bought any of the conspiracy theories. They’ve always felt In Utero was the best album.)
They might say “Fart-Knocker,” albeit under their breath.
Five photographers on motorcycles in pursuit of one dark-blue Mercedes. They’d concede they’d had to look up the word: Paparazzi. By all accounts, the princess was beautiful, selfless, a good mother, and what they’d remembered most, unhappy. They’d say they couldn’t imagine living with the constant flash of camera bulbs, barbaric and blinding, but would they be telling the whole truth? Fame, after all, does come with its advantages.
Troubling. What they’d say about kids nowadays who draw a blank whenever hearing reference to “Festivus” or “The Soup Nazi” or “The Puffy Shirt.”
Black laces dangling, dangerously loose, they’d shrug over the faint recollection of Y2K, swearing the only bug they ever feared was the large, hairy, many-legged kind.
There are steadfast believers, those who stick to their guns that rockstar-wannabe was (and is) The Almighty. Branch Davidians believe the dead are merely unconscious, awaiting resurrection and travel to Their Kingdom. “Complete horse shit,” they’d proclaim, their Black Greasy leather scuffed. (Nevertheless, they do like the sweet sound of immortality.)
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