Friday, February 21, 2014

How To Kill A Hipster

You always hear people complaining about hipsters. How they wish there were no hipsters. Look, I'm tired of listening to you all complain. I'm not gonna go and kill them myself...too messy. And I really have nothing against them. But I'll offer up some advice. You can pay me back later. Here's how you kill a hipster.

Tell him he is a hipster. Compliment him on his hipster ways. Then tell him, it's so cool he's a hipster because hipsters are what's in right now. The knowledge of knowing he's a hipster, a hipster being someone who does the opposite of what's in, and knowing hipsters are in, which makes him in, but he's not cause he's a hipster, but he is in.....he will explode. Maybe implode. Basically he will cease to exist. His brain will flood with contradictory thoughts, his legs will swell up underneath his skinny jeans, his flannel whatever will be taut to his skin, he will sweat pools into his lumberjack boots, and his existence will light in a fiery flame of non-existence.

That's how you do it. Go around town telling every hipster you see the same thing and watch beanies and mustaches and lenseless glasses go flying about, flung from exploding bodies. They'll land amongst the streets. Garments and piles of facial hair and accessories lying about. Skateboards and those really tall, obnoxious bicycles rolling aimlessly down the streets. It will look like Spencer's turned inside out during a Halloween sale. But you will have accomplished your goal. And I can stop listening to you complain.

And think about this! There will be such a mess in the streets! Someone will need to clean this all up! Hey Obama, can you say 1,000 new jobs created in a single verbage spree? Plus all the job openings of the recently missing baristas and comic book salesmen and condescending people at clothing stores that say things like "Well, you can try it on if you think it might actually look good I guess" like shut up Randall I'll ask your opinion on if it looks good on me if I want to but right now I can't find the fucking dressing room in your dimly lit store cause buying a lightbulb is too much god damn effort for you people so could you just do your job and tell me where it is without furrowing your brow and biting your thumb nail and checking your Whatsapp notifications with your deep sighs like I'm wasting your time when you're supposed to be doing your fucking job?!

Really, I have nothing against them.

So Obama, you doing this or what?

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