I grew up in New York City, and I used to run around Brooklyn quite a bit as a youth, but it has been a while since I actually took a walk around Williamsburg and said words to people and listened to their words in return. I endeavored to do so last weekend, and found out that my old stomping grounds have become a festering dung heap of irony.
I challenge you to examine the following syllogism and dispute its inevitable conclusion:
Hipsters look disgusting. It appears to me that they dress in a manner intended to obscure those few remnants of sexuality that haven’t fallen casualty to their inactive lifestyle and lax hygiene.
Hipsters have these funny flat bumbums. Those hindquarters are useless. I know about their silly little bottoms because a few of these ninnies auditioned their extended backs for the role of my gentelmanly rump in my new film. Nice try douchebags, maybe another year’s worth of PBRs will help you fill out.
Hipsters are not providers. Every time a hipster breathes, America’s GDP pees a little. However, hipsters’ counter-establishment vitriol remains fully subsidized by their well-established parents, who don’t know what else to offer their preternaturally hip offspring than a credit card and the occasional “Nice t-shirt…I like how it has words and colors.”
Inexplicably, it seems that hipsters manage to get laid. Fairly often, actually. During my evening out in Williamsburg, I saw not less than three cute little riot grrls walking home, each with her own filthy pet hipster, hand dug deep into his flat-bottom pocket, conveying a clear intention to accept an imminent deposit of hipseed. Gross.
Despite all of their selective disadvantages, hipsters manage to procreate fairly efficiently. Accordingly, it seems that hipsters buck the tenets of Darwinism and constitute the missing link of Intelligent Design doctrine. However, if we accept the corollary that man is created in the image of God, we must also accept the meta-conclusion that Jesus was a hipster fuck who spent most of this time cruising Nazareth dive bars, bumming cigarettes and running PBR tabs on the Holy Father’s Mastercard.
Fuck you, hipster Jesus. Get a job.