Is this the end? The end of the hipster and the new beginning for normal people? I doubt it but its wishful thinking. One would think that when a couple of douchebag mother fucking hipsters decide to charge people extra for “artisanal” ice in their drinks, that we’ve hit rock bottom and things are sure to get better. May lightning strike these fucking cocksuckers.
Today, I saw Xander, the shish-kebab skewer-armed cupcakeologist from Wiscossota whose teeth I knocked out last week, heading to a “Bushwick-based” artisanal performance art dentist. So I put a “We moved to Bensonhurst” sign on the front door and when Xander arrived I duct taped him to the dentist chair and beat his bearded face with an aged and hardened sopressata. End of story.
Here’s an article that has compiled just about every time the New Yup Times has stroked Brooklyn’s cock. Before the hipsters and yupsters discovered Brooklyn, the NYT probably had not mentioned the borough since the Dodgers won the World Series in 1955. But now, with a blend of boring and predictable writers at the Times with ties to hip/yup Nieuw Breuckelen, and an endless supply of beardos, faux foodies and overnight artists, they have plenty to write about. And these are just articles that compare other places to Brooklyn; there were plenty of others written about it’s magical rooftop gardens, pretentious art galleries opening in working class neighborhoods, and artisanal bike lanes.
Today I heard Logan the Pringle Man costume wearing, transplanted gentrification bartender nasally giggle as he talked about his new ironic cocktail called the “Ebola” – made from locally-sourced W. African rum; mango juice from an authentic Bushwick bodega; sprinkled with Fruity Pebbles and poured over an old-timey artisanally hand-chisled chunk of ice in a laboratory beaker. So I lodged a meat hook through his communion wafer chest, covered him in bird seed and hung him from the Williamsburg bridge as a flock of pigeons pecked him to death. End of story.
SAN FRANCISCO – So we have a ‘Conner’, a ‘Josh’, and a guy in a ‘Rhode Island Wanderers’ shirt reserving a soccer field that probably has never been reserved in its’ existence. Hysterical! You can’t make it up. These entitled suburban wuss transplants simply don’t know the unwritten rules of urban settings yet are so desperate to be “urban”. They don’t know that you just have to call next and wait your turn. Just like Mommy used to reserve Chuck E Cheese for their 3rd through 21st birthdays back in Michigan and Rhode Island, they don’t know any better.
As sad as this might sound – and I really hate to say it – but these guys are pioneers. They are currently taking beatings – both verbal and physical in some cases – as they swoop into places you’d never thought you’d see them and pave the way for the little Colbys, Calebs, Tanners, Gwynns, Astors, and Zanes of the future.
Not only have these artisanal dildos hijacked our once affordable apartments; our roadways with their stupid fucking bicycles; our coffee; our groceries; our bars; they are now trying to take away little soccer fields and school yards from kids and working-class people. Too bad this video didn’t end with Conner and Josh’s head being used for penalty kicks. I love at the very end: “What’s up Conner, I’m Josh”. LOLLLL. The names! The names! And, it shows that they don’t even know each other. One of them probably found a field on Google Maps and then set up a play date through a site like meetup.com for recent arrivals to SF. Fucking bitches!!!
Thanks to http://instagram.com/EddieGoing again for sending in these pics of attention-starved interlopers. The hipster calendar say its October 31st in every box for 12 pages. You see, when you have no real job and no where to be, it can be Halloween any day of the year – unfortunately. Hipsters have proven this to us for the last 10 – 15 years here in this once great city. They ironically dress as rock stars, farmers, depression-era paper boys, Amish people, and homeless people all while actually being bland middle to upper-middle class nobodies from fly-over states who feel they are allowed to unleash their talentless selves on us upon their arrival to NYC. When will it end? When will the hipster finally die and leave us alone?
Today, I saw brothers Ludlow and Stanton scouting Central Upper Bushwick with their enabling Minnesotan parents for a storefront to sell artisanal ant farms with a rooftop cruelty-free porridge cafe. So I hung them by their Salvador Dali moustaches from under the Brooklyn Queens Expressway overpass; hauled in a truck load of rocks and had myself and a bunch of other native Brooklynites stone them half to death. End of story.
In this new category called “TALENT & NO TALENT”, I will simply be putting an actual talented street performer up against the attention-starved, talentless and annoying Matthew Silver. Matthew believes he is a “love spreader” for humanity. He thinks he has a gift and uses a strong word like “love” as some sort of smoke screen to cover up his worthless and pointless performances. I’ll give you an example of REAL love spreaders: The Beatles; they spent probably only a day or two (unlike the years Matthew is spending in Union Sq and subway platforms) writing and recording ‘All you need is love’, and that song is embedded in millions of people’s heads around the world and will be for generations to come. Another example: Hallmark Card Company; they’ve printed millions of cards about Love that are in the drawers of millions of people as reminders of a special person or moment.
Now, I know you are reading this Matthew. Just remember: when you yell something zany and kooky at someone passing by or when you yell LOVE IS THE ANSWER!!!, just know that the little smile that you MIGHT put on that person’s face leaves their face by the time they turn the corner (aside from the people that want to fucking kill you). Remember, you have no lasting effect – because you suck. Now go get a job, it wasn’t meant to be.
TALENT (must watch until the end)
NO TALENT (must watch only 3 seconds)
Today, I saw Harrison the 32 year old, umbilical cord-shaped, Ulysses S. Grant bearded, 2 year Brooklyn veteran celebrating with other gentrifiers for his promotion from ‘guy-who-rolls-up-electrical-cords-after-a-rock-show-in-a-dive-bar’ to bartender. So I doused him with Bacardi 151 and rubbed his No. 2 pencil arms together to cause friction and set him on fire. End of story.