Ok, I'm sick of looking at that little brat in the red sweater. I guess since the 1980s the appropriate thing would be to give him a "time out." In my day, any adult in the neighborhood would have used more impressive measures to wipe that snotty look off his over-privileged face (the sweater, pudgy cheeks and good haircut are the give-aways).
Flame me, if you will. But first, you must prove what my inner thoughts are regarding "impressive measures."
Fine -- I admit to being a boomer. I was born in 1343 when things were pretty good in London and I grew up in a certain kind of privilege with the other mazillion kids whose families believed that every sperm was sacred. My Dad was a vinter -- can't vouch for the quality, but, hell, wine was better than mead in those days. You youngsters don't appreciate what I had to go through before the flowering of my genius. My Dad was kidnapped by my repulsive Aunt Mizrabel who wanted to marry me off to her snotty-nosed daughter Yechta. Fer Jeebus sakes, I was only twelve! Good thing the scheming old woman spent some time in the clinker because of it. That's what a bit of elitism will do for you.
Now, what you youngsters don't get is that I had to do my time making my own way -- boring stuff, like being a civil servant (Sir John Ashcroffte got me my first post), scrap metal guy -- ok, yeah, I was a courtier, Comptroller and stuff, but those things repressed my poetic skills.
Now, I know some of you are going to blame me for the plague, political upheavel that devastated the economy, health care benefits and ozone layer. Get over it. I did my bit for humor in the face of the Black Death. I will be remembered long after that kid in the sweater turns into a thirty-something with uncorrected personality traits (thank you Robin Hitchcock). For the love of Holy Jaysus -- get that kid off my courtyard!