The recruiting tone of this book is well-depicted on the cover. A masculine man with a strong jaw holds a megaphone at the ready as he looks from the shadowed space beneath the visor of his baseball cap at the woman next to him, who is regarding the reader with narrow, measuring eyes. This is an excellent graphic, encouraging the reader from progressing to the man’s position.
Thrilled to find that some millennial testicles have descended from the body politic and immediately conscious that The ‘68ERS must be the European version of the object of my deepest disgust, The Baby Boomers—most degenerate generation of apes produced by this planet—I jumped right in, even reading the introduction, which I usually skip.
After being interrupted by a drug addict who asked to see the book and read the dust cover, giving it back, convinced it was hateful, I spent an hour reading and taking notes on this book and finished as I off-loaded from the mass-conveince for dysgenics, pleased that there are still Caucasians with a brain who are not content with the soft seduction of their evil parent’s delicious suicide.
Below are a few quotes to give the reader an idea of the poetic tone of this declaration of social war on mankind’s worst generation:
“You’ve thrown us into this world, uprooted and disoriented, without telling us where to go or where our path lies. You’ve destroyed every means for us to orient ourselves.”
“For deep in us lies a constant feeling of being alone, of being lost. We do everything to numb this feeling.”
“You were egoists, and you divorced a thousand times without once thinking about what that would mean for us.”
Willington continues on indicting the weakest generation of humans in history, convincingly making of them an immoral corpse upon which to build something reactionarily decent.
Interestingly the terminally damaged millennial behind me, after accessing my web site and checking the bio, said in his yawning heroin drawl, “A boxing coach. I could have used boxing or karate or something. I’ve always wondered what it was like to walk confidently and then all that comes to mind is those kids beating me with table legs. If I had boxed, maybe I would not ‘ave been getting high and going to prison, might have been somebody.”
I suppose being a lone seedling in a garden of atomized guilt is even worse than the sissy, cowardly, materialistic upbringing I had. At least I knew that what I was raised to be crashed and burned when it hit reality.