In the very shadow of the great debate over the Ground Zero Muslim Mosque, another vital crisis is raging. You need not travel far from that hallowed place where 3,000 Americans sacrificed their lives to “bump” into this world where the souls of our young people are put at risk each and every day. Sadly, it only takes a quick glance at the gut-wrenchingly honest journal diary entitled “The Underemployed Ivy Grad With a Rolodex of Options and a Hot New Boyfriend” in this week’s New York Magazine to see how vacant and sick this threat to our future truly is.
Right now, the United States is in the worst financial state since the great depression. Our unemployment levels and debts are at record highs. Meanwhile, our students and workers cannot compete in world markets because they are not learning as fast as their peers in other countries. As a nation, we have simply failed to strive intellectually and claim our share of the natural resources needed to insure us a global role in the century ahead. Despite all of this, despite the fact that we are literally letting the integrity of this country slip through our fingers as oil-rich Islamics erect outposts on our lands and drug-cartels extend their battle territories to US soil, we have a culture that has deified laziness and addiction as the highest possible social goal.
Reading this somewhat irresponsible piece in New York Magazine, one would assume that young Americans subsist on a steady diet of hardcore sex and all-night partying. The sad story is rife with the most foul forms of violation, both spiritual and physical. There is no interest in love, careers, family or faith. I applaud the author’s honesty, for now we have a record of that vile reckoning of carnal lust viciously beating down our beautiful children. Sodomy, masturbation, drugs, addiction and an absolute vacancy of the soul; is that what parents dreamt of when they dreamt of “family” years ago?
In that breathless and gossipy way homosexuals like to talk, the author (described only as “28, male, Williamsburg, gay”) recounts several days spreading his special disease of immorality, from humid dirty bars to overcrowded ghetto apartments. If the phrase, “the banality of evil” were not already claimed, surely this journal would qualify. It is often painfully plain and direct, no flourish or passion, just an agonizing record of the decline of a young person’s mind. It includes passages such as:
7:30 a.m.: Wake up to my cleaning lady ringing the buzzer. Decide not to masturbate for once. Roommate texts to remind me she is out of town for the weekend. I instantly fantasize about having group sex in the apartment.
2:10 a.m.: Get to his apartment. We have drunken sex, I don’t orgasm. I can’t decide if this is because I am nervous because I actually like him or because I am drunk.
2:35 a.m.: Start making out again. He is a great kisser. We go at it again, this time I finish and we go to sleep.
It is with the greatest irony that a stone’s throw away from where the Twin Towers once stood, an epicenter of supreme indulgence and depravity is thriving. Williamsburg, a corner of Brooklyn, New York, is where the sex-crazed journal writer’s story takes place. As has been reported previously, the hipster culture there has grown like a nasty vine in recent years. Its sickly tendrils are now reaching out and groping every corner of this country, even our small towns and farms, our families and children who might otherwise believe in hope and God.
Why do we allow ourselves to be raped repeatededly by the homosexual media? Who are they to invade our lives? They lure our teens and 20-somethings off into darkness with nasty promises. They violate the conscience of millions of Californians with activitst judges. They taunt the vulnerable even on our tv sets, adding subversive messages to every child’s show, from Glee to True Blood. And they are not finished yet. Once they grab the young generation from the real world, they are not even close to being finished. Who could describe or truly know what our Malthusian future holds? For now, they destroy our values with each stomp of their damp, musky sneakers on after-hours disco floors, crushing our very souls as harsh lights illuminate their flourescent Charlie Brown t-shirts and cocaine-pale faces and even then they find new frenzies, rubbing harder and harder into each other, aspiring to the perfect veneral opprobrium to all the hopes and dreams that people like Sarah Palin represent.
Maybe we shouldn’t be surprised that a once-fabled but now fabulist enterprise like New York Magazine would promote such vice. Since an avowed homosexual named Adam Moss seized control, that place has not just slipped, it has thrown itself down willfully, dejected and impotent, on Gotham’s fluffy-pillowed bed of traded-fluids, begging for some hard lash of attention, blind to who is giving it as long as it penetrates their page-view projections. And where has that attention come from? Homosexuals and hipsters are their chief demographic. Every week with every cover, we are reminded that Moss craves an embrace from their pimply, emaciated limbs. Of course, the magazine shows no shame at suckling at the teat of the worst of mediocre Bushwick-basement manufactured micro-trends. Their coverage is so unprofessionally and flamboyantly biased it truly begs the question if this rag should arrive in one’s mailbox in a brown paper bag with parental advisories stickered all over. Or better yet, serve it up over a bartop with a complimentary junior-sized condom and a Farsi-English dictionary.