Today, on the opening Sunday of the NFL season, I walked by an overpriced gentrification “craft ale” bar in Bushpointburg full of kazoo-voiced, baguette-bodied, Ohio transplanted hipster fucking beardos cheering as all TV’s were only showing Browns and Bengals games. So I stole a wrecking ball that was about to knock down an affordable building for normal Brooklyn families to build more condos and passed the ball through the bar – splattering interloper brains everywhere. End of story.
Did this father teach this spoiled cumstain of a son a lesson and send him on the right track eventually?
Or did he force him to pretend he has found his calling as an “artist” in the near future and will have his Daddy paying his way through a gentrification vacation in a “kewl” city near you?
I can absolutely see this whining bitchboy growing a beard and styling his hair in “just woke up” mode and moving to Bushwick to pretend to be an artist or “graphic designer” and simply just becoming one of those dime a dozen, identical, punchable hipster fucks we keep seeing come off the assembly line. I believe most Calebs and Haydens that you see have gone through this sort of thing prior to becoming world renowned artists.
Today, I saw Conrad the coffee stirrer armed, under-the-Williamsburg-bridge overpass-typewriter-poet trespass into actual Brooklyn by going to L&B Spumoni Gardens. So I gouged his eyes out with a spumoni scooper and then used a 24-sqaure metal pizza tray to smash across his face leaving a bearded, thick eyeglass frame impression in it. End of story.
Today, I saw Terrence and Quaid at the grand opening of their parentally paid-for typewriter and pennyfarthing museum. So I walked in dressed like the Monopoly man as not to raise suspicion, locked the door and proceeded to club them into comas with my Louisville Slugger. End of story.
Ouch, my balls; these jeans are tight
I just learned how to knit a sweater
No work on Monday, let’s party all night
When we move in and push the natives away
In my new city, like, yaaaaaah.
In my new city, oh yaaaaaaah
I’m from a state with a lot of malls
My beard grows, I’m so urban and gritty
Until I catch a beating when night falls
To gentrify the Brooklyn sky
I know if Mommy keeps on paying
Then I can stay for another night
In my new city, like, yahhhh
In my new city
Well look what we have here. An incredibly talented man – yet no big lice beard; no meaningless sleeve or neck tattoos; no exaggerated dorky glasses; no Bill the Butcher hat or zany moustache; no package of roll-your-own tobacco in sight; no ironic t-shirt; no fusion tacos; no “craft” ale; no teenage girl’s jeans; no indoor ski hat or scarf. No pretention. Nothing. No accessories needed when you have talent like this. This guy has more talent in one of his ass pimples or a pubic hair left on a toilet 20 years ago somewhere than every fucking hipster that ever moved to Brooklyn and that ever will.
Hipsters need all those accessories as distractions; its become a rite of passage into the world of being a talentless, worthless, space-wasting, homogenizing lemming. It allows you to be a fake artist in a community of fake artists. What’s happening in places like Brooklyn is that these hipsters are forcing themselves to believe that they are real artists and that they are part of something big – but they’re not. But if everybody believes, then it becomes real (in their heads). Then you have horrible journalists who are close cousins of the “artisan hipsters” getting into media and pushing this shit down everyone else’s throats. One massive circle jerk.
Make sure to watch to the end where he ignites the paper on the still-hot glass. This video reminded me [that hipsters suck] of some article I read a while back about that 3rd Ward place in Bushpointburg (that’s closed now). It had pictures and mentions of some mutton chopped transplanted wanna-be Ye Olde Blacksmith removing something red-hot from a kiln. I bet you that thirtysomething parentally funded fraud is long gone and back in his tree house in Wisconsin sipping on Sunny-D waiting for Mom to call him in for some Hamburger Helper. FUCK THESE PEOPLE!!!
Today, I saw Tanner and Hamilton riding their limited edition 1977 rusty Schwinn two-seater bicycle along the Gowanus Canal to the annual Gowanus Creative-Type Superfund Site Toxic Clam Bake happening since way back in 2011. So I jumped in one of the magnetic cranes at the nearby scrap yard and ascended them into the magnet, cracking their skulls, and then released them into the canal where they dissolved like a couple of artisanal Alka-Seltzers. End of story.
Ahhhhh, the whimsical life of a Brooklyn Baby. Where babies go to ‘Smorgusburg’ to get artisanal rooftop beets and pickles from a bearded man; where Molly sells kale marmalade. Then off to the carousel where another bearded man with plaid shirt and thick framed glasses awaits. Yes THIS IS BROOKLYN – from the perspective of someone who has only been to about two Brooklyn zip codes since their arrival.
Someone on Twitter sent me a message yesterday related to this story and I couldn’t have said it any better myself. She said: “I hate that these babies get to say they’re born and raised in Brooklyn. That isn’t going to mean what it used to.”