You’re probably wondering how millennials ruin so much while doing so little. I’m going to get kicked out of goat yoga for this and I don’t even want to think about where I’ll get my Kombucha from now, but I’m willing to tell you how we do it because it’s time the rest of you know what we plan to kill next.
We meet in secret and vote on our main targets. Every city, every suburb, every scary rural town that you’re afraid we’re going to infect with our vaping and our Planned Parenthood, we meet. The headquarters is in Brooklyn, of course, but baristas around the US all get sent a secret Instagram message, usually about cats or kale, and they misspell our names on cups to give us the times and dates of the secret meetings. I’ve only been to one Brooklyn meeting, but I can assure you that they’re just as deviant and repugnant as all those Facebook memes would have you think.
We have the meetings in the basement of Joel’s Fixed Speed Bikes and Mustache Wax Emporium. There’s a guy named Roscoe at the door, waiting for the password, which is really hard to get. Usually you have to willingly go to a Chain Smoker’s concert where Bon Iver is hiding out in disguise. You have to find him and answer his three riddles and then he’ll give you the password for the yearly Brooklyn meeting, only it’s usually really hard to hear and in a minor key. Give Roscoe the password. You usually get better luck going in if you bring a ukulele and sing him the password. Roscoe snaps his suspenders at you three times, and that’s how you know you can go inside. Roscoe doesn’t speak because his beard and mustache have become so overgrown and entangled he can’t open his jaw anymore.
It was such an amazing evening that I waited a bit on the sidewalk and watched delegates arrive from other cities. A young woman cut the line of people waiting to gain entrance, latte cup in her hand and a teacup piglet in her NPR tote bag. I could tell she was a millennial city delegate because she was wearing a Rose all Day shirt and a pink pussy hat. She breezed by me and gave Roscoe a little wave. I was only there because I’d won entrance to the meeting by liking and following a Things 90s Kids Love on Instagram and answering their trivia question about Salute Your Shorts correctly. #teamdonkeylips
The sidewalk outside is a hubbub of people trying to get in and there’s an air of urgency. There’s a shortage of bike parking, Uber won’t pick people up or drop people off from here because being held accountable for being gross isn’t their thing. I could tell this meeting was going to be a big one.
Inside the Emporium, we all grab our mason jars and fill them with raw water. The air inside is one of expectation. Everybody is tweeting diligently, selfies are taken with determination. We are here to change the world.
Roscoe snaps his suspenders four times and everybody clumps together to go down to the basement where the wifi signal is weak and the lighting is bad for selfies. I can’t believe the sacrifice they’re forcing on us or the lengths they’ll go to try to keep our meetings a secret.
The meeting starts and we’re enveloped in a cloud of vape and white kid-dred stink.
A young woman wearing yoga pants and a Pokemon t-shirt waves her arms for silence and the excited chatters die down.
“We’ve done it!” she exclaims with pride as a man next to her holds a tablet aloft. The headline reads “Millennials Kill Chili’s.”
“Chilis is no more!” The crowd goes wild with an earsplitting cry of “YASSSSSSS KWEEN” before she settles them down again. A goat wanders over and starts eating her hemp jacket. Roscoe snaps his suspenders for quiet.
“What should we kill next?” she yells to the brunch stuffed crowd.
“Applebee’s!” shouts a short girl with a side shave and unicorn hair.
“Paper napkins!” shouts another. Soon ideas are raining down like confetti at a Bernie or Bust Rally.
“The 40 hour work week!”
“Over-gendering your baby!”
Each new cry gets the crowd hyped up even more. A lumbersexual beside me gets so excited he throws up his avocado toast. The goat eats it.
“THE PATRIARCHY!” and the crowd goes silent. The only thing I can hear is Roscoe nervously thumbing his suspenders and the goat chewing on soggy toast.
A few people exchange uncomfortable looks.
“Uh, maybe chill on that since my dad still pays for my apartment…..” someone mutters from the back.
“Yeah, I’m on my dad’s insurance plan.”
“My dad’s picking me up after this.”
The young woman in the Pokemon shirt realizes she’s losing the room.
“Okay, we’re going to table the patriarchy for now. Any other suggestions?”
“The diamond industry?” says someone in a small voice from the back of the room.
Suddenly the group starts chattering, the excitement level rising. A guy in a Buzzfeed t-shirt gets so excited he wets himself. The roar of assent starts building and I can feel it under my feet and then as it thunders up and reverberates in my chest.
“YASSSSS KWEEEEEEEENNNNNNN!!!!” come the resounding response.
“There you have it! Millennials, we will kill the diamond industry because we’re all so fucking deep in debt that we can’t afford an overpriced, badly constructed engagement ring from a mass market distributor that doesn’t pay fair trade prices to the people they make mine the diamonds. Never get married! Have consensual, birth controlled, healthy and enjoyable protected sex out of wedlock and piss off your baby-boomer relatives who got stuck marrying their high school sweetheart because they forgot to pull out on prom night!” the young woman paces back and forth. It’s like Braveheart, only not with an anti-Semitic privileged white guy yelling at you.
“They may take our credit scores, but they’ll never make us buy diamonds!” she screams, holding up the tablet. The crowd erupts into shrieks of glee, pounding on tables, until she can no longer be heard.
“YASSSS KWEEEEN!” they scream.
“Boy, bye!” They bellow.
Roscoe snaps his suspenders again to call us to order. Assignments are handed out to the city delegates. We all have our orders.
Kill the diamond industry, which kills conventional marriage, which kills conventional gender roles which furthers the gay agenda.
There, now you know it. Your crazy uncle’s Facebook memes have been right ALL THIS TIME.
This piece is from Megan Kaleita’s non-fiction book This Book is Brought to You By My Student Loans which will be out in 2019 by CLASH Books