“Roly poly fish heads are never seen
Drinking cappuccino in Italian restaurants,
With oriental women, yeah…”
Buddy: Deb, you have such a pretty face, you should be on a Christmas card!
Deb: Oh, you just made my day!
“Well, beatniks for one, folk singers, and motorbike riders. Y’know. All those hip, jazzy, super cool, neat, keen, and groovy cats. It’s in the fridge, daddy-o! Are you hip to the jive? Can you dig what I’m layin’ down? I knew that you could. Slide me some skin, soul brother!”
– Willy Wonka (responding to the question “Who wants a beard?”) from the film Charlie and the Chocolate Factory
By Neil Hilborn;
“Today, on The Wild Kingdom, we will observe The Mating Habits of the North American Hipster. Look there. Just through those bushes. We can see the hipsters dancing. Watch as they do something called “freaking” to something called “dubstep.” No, that is not other animals mating, it is dubstep. Observe how they keep their faces as relaxed as possible so as to not seem too invested in the activity at hand. The male even produces a pocketwatch from inside of his neon yellow vest. He then goes on Craigslist to search for more pocketwatches. Notice his smartphone case that weighs as much as and resembles a pocketwatch. Remember always the hipster creed: “Why be efficient when you could be inefficient?”
The preliminary mating ritual is now over. Let us follow them back to the filthy hovel in which they will attempt to produce awful, mustachioed babies. Hipster dens are often decorated in trash, and this one is no different: bent bicycle rims and brown paper bags are nailed to every wall. But what is this? The male is continuing his disinterested facade? He is…he is sitting down to his typewriter! Extraordinary! Now he is taking an Instagram photograph of himself, at his typewriter, blatantly ignoring the half-naked female in the background! In retaliation the female is using his straight razor to shave her pubic hair into what she is calling her pusstache. Or perhaps her muffin chops. Now she is taking her Macbook, and his Macbook, and her other Macbook, and her book on Macbooks, and arranging them in a circle. The male deems this an acceptable mating habitat, and amidst the Apple products, he mounts her—indifferently—but not before setting his Deguerrotype camera to take a silver nitrate photograph of them humping. Slooooooowly. Remember always the hipster ideal: if you base your life around your possessions, make sure they are bizarre, inconvenient, and obsolete, for then no one can accuse you of being shallow.
Dear viewer, you may laugh at the noble hipster, but consider this: he has a fixed-gear bicycle, you have a Lexus. You drink top shelf liquor, he drinks PBR at bars where it costs ten dollars. You have a diamond ring, she has a tattoo of a diamond ring. Next to her vagina. Indeed, the hipster may be an asshole materialist, but at least he warns you with his uncomfortable shoes made of vegan alligator skin and good intentions. No, dear viewer, I would posit to you that the North American Hipster is just like us, only…sillier.”
“I hate your blog.
terrible and bad.
I hate your blog. You own a dog, and you feed it.
You post about it. I get to read it.
Plus: five paragraphs on the socks you bought
and your thoughts on whether Nicole Ritchie’s hot or not.
You got no reason to be typing, yet you persist.
Hit each key with your fist till you punch out your top ten list
of all the things that ever happened in your life.
Number one: met Michael Jackson’s second wife.
Number two: got Curly on the Which Stooge Are You
Poll, as the GIF proves. Click for the link-through!
Three: saw puppy pictures on a web page,
kittens in a nest egg. The idea gestated:
Why not open up your own?
So you bought the account and yet I hope you don’t
put the payments in on it every month like they want,
‘cause then you’ll disappear off the internet, haunt
just the Wayback Machine like a ghost.
And I won’t be like, “How come you don’t post??”
I promise I won’t.
I hate your blog. Your recipe for vegan eggnog is stupid.
I hissed and I booed it,
and then eschewed it, never made it once. Yes,
your blog roll is a confederacy of dunces.
It abuts less interesting links in your posts.
Hamsters that dance! I’m not engrossed.
I’m not opposed to your collection of All Your Base pics,
but they’re longer in the denture than a ninja flipping out doing face kicks.
I’ll phrase this nice:
if it’s hard to get to bed, your web site will suffice
to entice me to slumber. I mumble impoliticly,
“I tried not to click ‘read more’ but you tricked me!”
Want to stick the whole computer in the trash can
instead of reading about the constipation lately and your ass plans
that you seem to contemplate.
You thought I would rate your page ‘awesome’ and ‘great’?
You’re just jealous. Yeah, that’s it — envious, even.
Turning green when my hit counter broke ten thousand this evening.
Mad you cant match my keypad content
or petitions for legalizing of micropayment thieving.
X-rays of teething eight-month heathens and pictures of kittens heaving,
the calories in everything I’m eating,
yaoi art my girl drew of Goku making out with Joss Whedon,
my 300-pound friend’s exposure (that’s indecent).
But that’s only negatives.
I’ve got discussions on the homeliest alien relative.
The final battle, Sam Cassell versus Carnage
and a triple-threat match: Charles v. Marilyn v. Shirley Manson from Garbage.
I pay homage to great Americans like Bill O’Reilly and Ann Coulter;
Westwood Radio for help when insulting countercultures.
My blog stands above all others by head and shoulders.
I hate your blog. You ain’t logged in in a month and a half,
and I, for one, am aghast.
I mean I’m fast on the way to removing it from bookmarks.
If I took part in vanity I might be trying to look smart
by not checking eight times a day.
Your blog is so despair-inducing I can’t bear to look away.
Oh, well! Got to do what your muse compels.
Guess I’ll try to go despise a blog by someone else.”~ MC Frontalot
“Done feeding, I leaned back head rested on the couch’s top
Must leave the house soon mean gone cause my pops he’s hot
Grab my blue backpack, my Walkman, grip my bicycle
Because I know my friends are waiting at the door
I’m feeling loose like you – Just fucking around and shit
Til that comes fifty-five I’m twenty-six”