Millennials Are Killing Me

It is a well-known fact that Millennials ruin everything. They have brought such devastatingly important industries as golf, bar soap, and napkins to their knees; they’re too obsessed with food; they eat the wrong kinds of food at the wrong restaurants, they prefer Saturday over Monday, and they create too many potholes while simultaneously not buying nearly enough cars. Millennials are too sensitive; they’re not sensitive enough; they spend too much time on the couch; they spend too much money eating out; they have too much casual sex; they don’t have enough sex; and they even have the audacity to not be addicted to gambling.

But undoubtedly the worst thing about Millennials is that they are killing me. Quite literally. Or at least trying to kill me. At this moment, as I look out the full floor-to-ceiling windows of the sun room on the top floor of my personal seven-story mansion, and sip from a $300 glass filled with $2000 champagne, I can see a group of five millennials climbing over the wall at the edge of my property. Though the ivy serves a beautiful aesthetic purpose, it also facilitates the climbing of the wall. In retrospect, I suppose it was a bad idea to have it there in the first place. The struggles of being a wealthy middle-aged white man.

I can see more millennials being insolent and disrespectful — scaling my walls and lighting torches, presumably to set fire to my mansion via the ivy. Another major instance of shortsightedness on my part, but hey, hindsight is 20/20.

Yes, I can see it now: the five millennials are walking across my perfectly manicured lawn towards me, and six or seven others behind them are scaling the wall. My dogs, of course, are doing their job and attacking the intruders, but one of them has very good aim with what appears, through my German custom-made High Definition Binoculars, to be a tranquilizer gun. Oh bother. I suppose I’ll have to escape in my emergency helicopter.

One of the millennials has apparently anticipated my attempt to escape via emergency helicopter, and the landing platform is now engulfed in flames. That damn ivy! I’ll have to pay off the judge at their trial to sentence them to just enough Community Service to fix my home. That should teach them to show some respect for this money I worked so hard to inherit.

Oh, bother. I seem to have spent so much time soliloquizing — my voice is just enchanting, if I do say so myself — that the temperature in my sun room is rising, presumably from the flames I can just barely see on the horizon of my vision. I will be forced to use the Aston Martin in my underground garage. Sigh. To the basement I go.

Here I am, pressing the buzzer to call Stevens, my elevator operator, up to me. When he does not immediately arrive, I press it several more times. Why isn’t he doing his job? Lazy millennials, forcing me to take the stairs like a peasant.

Upon reaching the ground floor, I am tackled by a particularly tough millennial and lie, stunned, on my back, for a few moments before passing out.

No matter what you think of millennials, you must agree: they are single-handedly killing the beer industry, the hangout sitcom, religion, lunch, and me — though technically, that last item requires two hands: one to hold the gun and one to pull the trigger. So here I wait, poor old me, blindfolded, at the mercy of these millennials.

They really are the worst.