Of all the newfangled trends everyone is wetting their pants over, my least favorite is most definitely the hipster. Those dirty motherfuckers think they can come to class dressed in thrift store relics from 1976, with only a ratted beanie (that they obviously hand-knit in-between class at the Rathskeller) covering their long, scuzzy, going-on-three-weeks unwashed hair.
I mean, be respectful and wash your hair every week and a half, like normal students, because you reek of a post-modern, existential stench and your hat is starting to mold. And if you're going ransack the clothing bins at St. Vinnie's for the last extra-small polyester tunic, at least have the decency to buy a v-neck at American Apparel like the rest of campus.
And must you come to class reeking of American Spirit lights?! Quit being so damn commercial and roll your own tobacco. Buying cigarettes makes you look like a fucking mainstream yuppie, despite that singular, poorly fashioned dread hanging next to your face.
I don't know what's worse, your addiction to plaid or your cat's matching plaid beret that you make it wear when you're baked.
Trust me—we all know when you've lit up before class, too. When the professor asked you a question and you rejected her use of your full name as a ""conventional social habit you prefer not to participate in"" and then proceeded to ramble over and over the same sentence about how you thought the aesthetic of the film was ""very simple, yet profound and in a unique way, beautiful"" we were all rolling our eyes in disgust because, frankly, the film wasn't even that good, it lacked an ironic hook that would have given it an intelligent edge that only the likes of myself or MAYBE Jonathon Ames could understand.
And for the record, it's only hip to have a very obscure, unrelated nickname consisting of three or less letters. I mean, who do you think you are, rejecting a name for yourself?! What is someone supposed to do when they want your attention? Shoot you very serious look with eyebrow emphasis and sexual hand gestures? While I do confuse most people with my androgynous haircut and, on a regular basis, forget to wear deodorant, I would never be so crude as to perform sexual hand gestures in public.
Maybe someday you'll develop good tastes in music, too. Everyone and their mother listens to Animal Collective, and I heard Summertime Clothes playing in Urban Outfitters last week so if you haven't already written an angry letter to Panda Bear denouncing your loyalty to their krautrock musicality and artistic self-expression and made an appointment with your physician to get your post-modern tattoo of a Rabbit (in reference to ""Who Could Win a Rabbit?"") removed from the inside of your wrist then you really shouldn't be going to this university. Don't think that by leaving the tattoo you've somehow achieved a sense of irony permanently printed on your arm, either. Just because you have a tattoo in reference to a band that has sold out into corporate consumerism on your arm and yet you continue to pretend to be hip by accenting it with chipped black nail polish and a self-woven bracelet doesn't mean shit. Maybe if you had a charm of El Quinto Sol on your self-woven bracelet like me, you'd achieve that sense of irony because everyone knows that the spiritual beliefs of the Aztecs deeply contrasts with the materialistic bourgeois of Animal Collective. No one listens to rock and roll anymore anyway. I listen to rock with the option to roll.
You know what? Forget it. I can't talk to you anymore. You've exhausted my patience. I checked out of this conversation about a minute ago and everything you've been saying since has sounded like your voice re-dubbed with the teachers voice from Charlie Brown. Good luck getting home on that fixie.
