By Kevin du Plessis

Many of us feel that we belong to a different generation. The majesty of kings were perhaps grander. The romanticism of nature was perhaps more present. The Flappers’ wardrobe was perhaps sexier. But I, I wish I were there for the Beat Generation.

The Beats finally said fuck you, you controlling, judgmental bunch of cunts, going around telling everyone how to act, to feel, to love. Anarchy may be a horrible model to run a society on, but, oh hell, what fun it is.

I wish there were laws for the protection of individuals who declared themselves to be of a Beat ideology. So that when they were caught borrowing a bread and some cheese in a grocery shop on the way to the coast with a free car they had found just standing in a parking lot with locked doors, a bag of weed and a whole lot of premium dirt cheap wines, they would not be told off or arrested.

“My Beat identification, officer,” the driver would say when pulled over for a simple 80 kilometers over the speed limit.

The policeman would look at the card, and though he would want to shit himself for frustration at not being able to do or say a thing, he would reluctantly hand back the document and say, “No problem here, sorry for the inconvenience”.

They would spin away and continue on their merry way, with perhaps one passenger flashing her beauteous breasts through the rear window of the car and another hanging out of the window indicating that the middle finger is indeed the most significant member of the hand.

If I were a Beat, I would have my Africa’s heart beat just slightly too fast.


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