Happy Easter Brooklyn.

Happy Easter to everyone except the transient, space-wasting, rent-raising hipsters.

By the way, you know how Easter Egg hunts are made for children? Well, a group of 20 and 30 somethings (probably 40 somethings as well) over in Bushpointburg had a boozy Easter egg hunt for themselves where eggs with prizes were hidden among a bunch of the local hipster bars. These kidults simply have no shame or simply don’t know any better being raised spoiled and never being told “NO” by Mom and Dad.

Meanwhile, some of the actual local kids probably witnessed Thaddeus and Morgan running around drunk with plastic eggs and asked “Mommy, why is the smelly bearded man and hairy legged woman in a potato sack dress playing with Easter Eggs and throwing up on the sidewalk?”

LinkBrooklyn Paper: Grand Street hosts Easter egg hunt for adults.

Subway system loses amazing performer.

Remember this “quirky” stick figure fuck?

 

Well here he is again. Notice how he goes from “try-hard mentally disturbed” person to letting the visiting relatives from Indiana who came to see their hipsters know that they have to position themselves a certain way so the police don’t come and disrupt his incredible act? [around 3:21 in the video]

 

And finally “Kalan” (these fuckin names!) is arrested the other day.  – www.gothamist.com

Hey, they asked him to leave – he refused because of some 1050.6 Rule of Conduct law. But YOU SUCK! You don’t deserve to blow your kazoo and harmonica while playing with your puppets and disturbing the public “Kalan”. Just another spoiled, parentally subsidized Cul-de-sacian on a NYC play date. Listen to him at 12:00 saying “You broke my suitcase, you broke it, you broke my, like, income.” BAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHA  Sure “Kalan”! Sure! You survive in the most expensive place on Earth with that astonishing act of yours? These hipster fucks are the biggest joke that ever happened to this city. But – the jokes on us. It’s at our expense.

 

 

Today’s hipster beating.

Today, I saw Trevor with his strapped on vintage guitar heading from “I’ll never actually be a real musician” band practice to his “Thanks Mom and Dad for paying my $2450 a month Bushwick rent this year” apartment. So I grabbed the guitar and put his head under the steel strings against the fret board and tightened all the pegs until his face sliced into seven pieces like a hard boiled egg. End of story.