Oh, Hipster...look at yourself. Don't you just look so ironic with your grubby little mustache, holey vintage t-shirt, and teeny-weeny skinny pants? Hipster, you hang out in the liberal arts building's halls and breezeways, smoking your American Spirits and wallowing in your irony. Sometimes, Hipster, you like to sit out on your stoop at all hours of the morning with your hep-cat friends and discuss the irony of things like Pabst Blue Ribbon and plastic-rimmed eyeglasses.
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| Man, those glasses are just so...vintage. |
Hipster, it's not that I don't like you. In fact, I've learned to ignore your very existence. After all, there are so many of you Hipsters now that you and your people have just began to...blend into the background. Isn't that
ironic? Hipster, we've managed to live in somewhat disconnected harmony for quite awhile now--we leave your tribe of greasy-haired, organic, leather-jacketed, smug, Helvetica-aficionados alone and you leave us "norms" alone. It's a shaky pact, but a pact that has been held strong for many, many moons.
We split up the territory between us. You guys get the record shop, the obscure coffee joints, Goodwill, and that one bar in town that sells Pabst on tap. We have to share the liberal arts building and the performing arts center, and that's okay. We tolerate each other. It's very well understood: we treat each other with cold nonchalance, exchange the occasional awkward eye contact, and we NEVER UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES discuss music, movies, or fashion with one another.
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| "This Crystal Castles LP is more cerebral than their last. What? Oh yeah, wax is so totally better than vinyl." |
This truce works Hipster. It's been time-tested and board-approved. So let's keep up the good work Hipsters, what do you say? We don't want any trouble, now do we? There's no reason for any of us to make any waves, right?
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| Or should we say, "Wavves?" |
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