Whats the deal with yuppies and belts. I wish I had a gut (or a tummy perhaps) so that I could properly rebel against these former dudes who stand outside Starbucks on Broadway. Coffee in hand, slacks firmly held in place, hair clean and groomed, and pants that somehow don't have wrinkles.
I don't get these people. Don't they remember the freedom of dirty, shaggy hair and sweat pants? Can they really be happy?
I'm assuming they go home and cry a little at the fact they have sold out to the man. Oh, those former dudes who have lost all sense of freedom. Perhaps one day they will again pump the Mega Deth and relax in some pants that have a draw string.
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