"'The Jetsons' are f**kin' stupid," Big Greg said to a group of us kids while he sat on the steps of the chicken box joint, shinning his chrome pistol with a soiled rag. "'Flintstones,' all that s**t dumb."
I could agree with his "Flintstones" argument. It's not that I didn't watch the cartoon, I did. But Fred Flintstone was always mad angry and looking for an excuse to yell — Wilma didn't deserve that. And Barney was just a yes man, constantly on the wrong side of Fred's bullying. He had to be secretly living in pain as a result. Also, the Flintstones abused animals, using them to wash their bodies, dishes and cars, and as a zoo-hating six-year-old who once told my mother, "I never want to go to animal jail again," I easily equated the show with that experience. Now "The Jetsons" was different, though. There was nothing basic or prehistoric, using-your-raw-feet-to-stop-your-stone-wheeled-car nonsense about that show. Greg clearly didn't get it.
