After a decade of trying to figure out how to get rid of them, it would appear the trick to millennial management is feeding them the same bullshit they’ve spent the past five years thinking they’re too cool for. Sure, they were skeptical of “newspapers,” impervious to “teaching,” and oblivious to “genuine human connection and legitimate concerns about the state of our world.” But just when it appeared all hope was lost, we realized that the answer had been in front of our noses and 17 years in the past all along: we literally just needed to hide invisible Pokémon around the world for them to find with their phones. 


It was as simple as a Zubat here, a Pidgey there. The generation of snake people perpetually reeking of brunch and entitlement became docile and complacent, for once closing their mouths and opening their eyes to the actual world around them. Some have even gone so far as to venture outside to find the animated blobs with eyes.

Once we figured out how to connect with the swamp creatures, we realized there was a whole host of other pre-chewed 90’s cud we could mama bird into their vapid, self-absorbed mouths. Their beady eyes glaze over as they succumb to the auditory hypnosis of the Fall Out Boy/Missy Elliott Ghostbusters theme song, mumbling about the Bechdel test and the gender wage gap. After being lulled into a strawberry Go-Gurt induced stupor they fall in line, one jelly-sandal-clad foot after the other, tripping over their overalls as they collectively master the air drums solo in Bored to Death and mourn the loss of Tom DeLonge.

Thousands of little slimy hands reach to grab the Heelys and silver Razor scooters collecting dust in the back of closets, and old childhood photos from that one time they met Senator Clinton are pulled from forgotten memory boxes. They sit in front of the Disney Channel Original Movie marathon becoming quieter and less insufferable with each Fuller House commercial, blissfully hitting their wrists with slap bracelets. Just as the Smart House credits begin to roll, the promise of a nearby Pikachu leads the Juicy-Couture-sweatsuit-wearing little shits out of our sight. We can only hope they find their next Squirtle on the island from Lost.

Simone Policano is a proud Snake Person perpetually missing Fruit Gushers and Even Stevens. She’s half-Puerto Rican, half-editorial intern at Above Average, and is eternally grateful to the letter A for avocados and Andy Samberg. Inquiries (Business/Romantic): @simonepolicano.  

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