They were in the back of the bus this afternoon, two off-duty AATA drivers, exchanging war stories about belligerent passengers, snotty passengers, or moronic passengers who ring the stop bell and then change their minds at the last possible second as the bus is pulling over for the stop, but mostly shaking their heads and moaning about those young-uns of the latter day. They are dads and both have what sound like teenage daughters at home. “At home, it’s ‘yes, sir’ and ‘no, ma’am,’ but you don’t know what’s going on when they get together with their little friends.”
I don’t know. Those dads may have had a point, but how much do you want to bet that it’s those same dads (or dads like them) who scream bloody murder at the TV set when the Patriots go into overtime or the Pistons lose an easy free throw? Or who turn red in the face and have veins bulging out in their necks when someone cuts in front of them on 94? Or who threaten to slam their kids into the wall over the slightest provocation?
It’s easy to lay the blame at the feet of the kids, but it all begins with the parents who gave birth to and raised those kids.
