I see you, hipsters, and you’re all cloned tards, with your fixie bikes and your fake-ass Buddy Holly glasses with no lenses, your skin-tight tapered jeans that reveal a matterless vacuum where your butt should be, your untrimmed hobo beards and Converse High Tops and beanies and suchlike. There’s a carpenter’s band saw out there somewhere waiting to shear off your comically flaccid weeners, which will be fed to you wrapped in grape leaves. I can safely say that your fathers consider all of you to be wasted orgasms, better to spurt their seed into the rectums of goats, and the more pleasure for it knowing such a bestial union comes bereft of producing creatures like you, only dry goo-covered turds easily disposed of. I see you hipsters and I reach out for some sharp object to blind myself from your ignoble and drooly countenances, a pen, a knife, the sharp edge of a rusty tuna can lid, anything to give me the providence of succor in the midst of your onerous and squinchy visages. There will come a day when the Hipster Nation is totally laid to waste by a re-emergence of good taste, showers & soap, and a lack of necessity to find that one album by that one band that no one has heard of.
The Death of the Hipster Nation
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