In tribute to both one of my favorite books, in which a Baby Boomer indicts his generation, and to the loud soul yapping his flapper non-stop, at obnoxious volumes, in an unnamed Ocean Shores restaurant this past Sunday morning, I give you excerpts from the beginning of Chapter 2 of the aforementioned literature:

A man is sitting on a park bench seven thousand feet above sea level, directly across from the snowcapped peaks of the Olympic Mountains. The glacier-speckled summits are spectacularly vivid on this clear July afternoon... But the man, who we have reason to believe is named Mel, is oblivious to all this useless beauty; inexplicably, he has turned his back on the natural wonders would almost certainly give his life to defend from nefarious logging companies or perfidious developers. Instead, he is gabbing in an irksome nasal pitch.

Most of the other people in the rest area are chatting in subdued tones, if they are talking at all, as they presumably subscribe to the theory that snowcapped mountains on a 90-degree day beggar speech. But our subject is thundering away full-throttle, sharing his thoughts... He is a man of strong opinions; he has crafted these opinions over a lifetime of sober reflection; and the opinions that he holds are ones he is anxious to share with all and sundry.

The subject of today's peroration is carbonation.

[snip]

"I never drink Coca-Cola on a hot day," he apprises his companion in his booming yet whiny voice. "There's too much sugar in it; it doesn't quench your thirst. And all that carbonation isn't good for you. On a hot day you should drink water. It's much more thirst-quenching. And it doesn't have carbonation. I don't like all that fizz. That's why I only drink flat water, not sparkling water. I never drink sparkling water on hot days like this."

Since he possesses a bullhorn for a voice, people as far away as Yellowknife have a pretty clear idea by now of where he stands on the subject of summer refreshment, carbonation, beverages in general.

[snip]

Mel is not a monster. He is not a skinhead. He is not a biker. He is not a neo-Nazi. He is not a gangsta. He is not spewing phlegm on passing children. He has no open sores. Yet in his own way he is every bit as offensive as all these other social misfits. Because unlike them, he is ubiquitous. He is the classic pain-in-the-ass Boomer who has to share his opinions with everybody about everything, and he has to do it all the time.

You, sir. You, sitting at aforementioned restaurant holding forth over breakfast with your extended thoughts on politics. You, Mr. Obama fan. You, Mr. "all preachers are crazy so Jeremiah Wright is no big deal" (well said on a Sunday morning no less. Delicious irony!). You, "Mr. the Democrats are just helping John McCain with this protracted nomination fight." You, the big-nosed liberal with your cliche environmentalist attire. You, who no matter what your political affiliation won't just shut up and enjoy some coffee with the splendid view of the beach. You sir, are Joe Queenan's "Garrulous Ass."

I - and the better part of that Sunday morning restaurant crowd - salute you. And I give thanks that my extended weekend getaway with my wife was enjoyable enough that I can laugh with ease at the unintended comedy that is your life.