Texting You Back in a Timely Fashion
Let us suppose that a hipster girl named Marni is out on the town with a gaggle of other hipsters, kickin’ it at a local watering hole’s massive experimental jazz dance night. She recently met a hipster boy when she was at her friend’s DJ thing at that bar that no one goes to anymore, but she went because, you know, Liam is at least trying to make something of himself (even though he lives in Jersey and gets wasted pretty much every day). For some reason she and this dude with an impressive neck tat started talking. She was struck by his passion for the Irish author James Joyce and his piercing blue eyes. He was struck by her knowledge of French New Wave films and the fact that she touched his arm a lot. They exchanged digits. They haven’t actually gone out yet, but have been volleying back witty texts about the cinematic score of The Virgin Suicides and Neck Tat’s slight Napoleon Complex for days now. It’s late. Marni is feeling kind of lonely/blue, so—bolstered by whiskey and against the advice of her friends—she shoots a text to Neck Tat (who is entered in her phone as such, as she does not give romantic interests real names until they earn that right—they never do).
To: Neck tat
Hey, I’m at Trophy Bar, if you’re around.
Sent: Thurs, Nov 12 11:45 p.m.
Marni stares at her phone for the next hour and a half. She puts it in her pocket, set to vibrate so that she will know when Neck Tat deigns to answer. She wonders, frantic, whether she’s fucked things up by contacting him as the minutes tick by.
Meanwhile, Neck Tat, sprawled on the floor of his friend’s loft, receives and reads the text immediately. He put his phone back on the floor next to the pile of empty Tecate cans and ruminates on what to say. No fucking way is he going to answer after, like, five minutes like some kind of desperate clod. No.fucking.way. After the requisite hour and a half, he flips open his phone.
From: Neck Tat
I’m at home. Come by and hang with me.
Received: Fri, Nov 12 1:15 a.m.
Marni, being smashed out her mind at this point, texts him back immediately, asking what his address is.
Back at Hipster Douchebag headquarters, Neck Tat peeps the text, flips his phone closed, drains a Tecate and settles in for about 30 minutes before the next text. Marni continues to drink.
That’s right, children: Although technology has made it possible for us to contact each other in mere seconds, hipsters have de-evolutionized the concept of communication, taking us back to the dark ages. You might as well send a fucking telegram, because the average hipster texts at the speed of a carrier pigeon.
(Photo)
Yes, This is a Fucking Contest
Heyo beautiful, spiteful babies. So next week marks the time of year during which we’re all supposed to eat like grotesque creatures, reflect on the massacre of scores of Native Americans and stare into the deep black abyss that is our relatives’ eyes when we tell them what we do for a living (“Oh, so you’re a creative type? Your cousin Jenn is almost done with medical school—and isn’t her boyfriend Trey lovely? Do you have a boyfriend, dear? Oh…so what exactly does ‘hooking up’ entail?”).
What does this mean for your favorite haterade manufacturers? Well, we over here at SHH will have a little less time to spew venom than usual. So—we propose a contest. Y’all send us suggestions, like, every fucking day, so why don’t you write a post for a change? Send us your best SHH entry—written in the style of this, your favorite blog—and we’ll post the winning entries on Thursday and Friday of next week. Oh, and please don’t send us shit we’ve already covered—hipsters hate fucking copycats. (There’s an archives page and a search-this-blog bar on your right, folks. Also an excellent way to spend the hours holed up in your childhood bedroom while your family debates the health care bill/watches football downstairs.)
Send entries to: Stuffhipstershate@gmail.com
Deadline: Tuesday, November 24th
Yep.
(Photo)
When Their Friends Go to Law School
Janelle: Hey dude, Jason is having a fucking awesome party tonight at some loft in Bushwick. Wanna get there early? Like 1 a.m. or somethin’?
Tyron: Sorry, lady. I have to study.
Janelle: What the fuck do you have to study for? You’ve been outta school for five years…
Tyron: The LSATs.
Janelle. Are you shitting me?
Tyron: Naw, I mean, this whole poet thing isn’t really working out. I mean, no one wants to pay me to write, so I figured I would, like, learn a trade.
Janelle: Are you going to be an LSAT tutor…?
Tyron: No, asshole. I’m going to law school.
Janelle: What the fuck? When have you ever expressed interest in the law? You don’t even like motherfucking Law & Order—and there’s like six versions of that show to choose from.
Tyron: Well, lawyers make a lot of money, which is something I don’t have. I can’t shelve books at an indie bookstore and do poetry slams forever, Jan. I can’t. I need stuff like, I dunno, a real bed. A room with walls. Last week I brought this chick home and she took one look at my so-called room—a shower curtain and bed sheets do not a bedroom make—and announced that she had to get up early. She’s a fucking freelancer. How many freelancers do you know who have to “get up early”? I can’t deal with this anymore, dude. I need to eat. I need to get laid. I need cash. I mean, yeah, I would probably have to wear a suit year-round to cover up my sleeve tats, and, sure, I would have to shave more often and probably move to Manhattan and drink with I-bankers at shitty places like Blondies, and I would most definitely have to pretend to get excited about sports and shit—but I can do it. I can suck it up. I’m almost 30. It’s time to get serious.
Janelle: Dude, you’re not going to get into law school. I mean, that’s just a stone cold fucking science fact.
Tyron: Why the fuck not? I got like fucking straight A’s in college.
Janelle: Well, for one, you majored in abstract sculpture and Victorian poetry, and two, the most experience you’ve had with the legal system was that time you got arrested for breaking into that construction site, getting smashed and passing out in your own vomit.
Tyron: Dude. That was like a fucking minor offense. Like, you know, a misnomer.
Janelle: Um. I rest my case.
(Photo)
Clean Sneakers
One would think that when you’re out, kickin’ down the cobblestones in a pair of sweet Vans or Keds, you’d want your shoes to look as awesomely pristine as a dew-dappled summer day—reminiscent of those glorious days of childhood during which you’d avoid every oil-slicked puddle in an effort of keep those whites blazing. Not so in the realm of hipsterdom. Although hipsters often sport white sneaks, you’ll find nary a denizen of Brooklyn sporting shoes that don’t look like they were previously on the feet of a half-rotted dead hobo who was dragged for about 20 miles under a mud-encrusted Mac truck. Why? Because wearing super clean shoes implies that, 1). They are new and you recently spent money, 2). You are a lazy ass who doesn’t walk anywhere (dude, there should be fucking holes in your fucking soles) or 3). You clean your shoes with bleach, which is just sad. Some hipsters will even go so far as to purposely scuff and dirty their new kicks before debuting them at dance-off/taxidermy Olympics night at their local watering hole. If you wanna walk a mile in a hipster’s shoes, you best drag your feet—through every fucking mud puddle on Bedford.
(Photo)
The People who Appear on Dating Shows
One, two, three, four—Elimidate. Yeah, man, we totally watched that for, like, four hours straight when we were stoned out of our minds at Jenson’s on Monday. Man, everyone on those fucking shows is basically, like, competing in the Douche Olympics. The dudes are these peacocking brohams with six fluid ounces of hair gel congealing on their enormous heads, and the chicks are these lisping 21-year-olds with bleach blond hair, fake tans and hideous low-cut see-through halter dresses. It’s seriously like this half-hour long contest to contract herpes. After, like, six minutes, one chick starts making out with the dude, and then another one pulls her out of the way by her hair extension and sits on his lap and attempts to eat his face. And then the last one, like, fucking stands up and rips off her top and starts rubbing her silicon peaks and valleys all over him. And the dude is just loving it. It’s, like, 1:30 a.m. on a Saturday night at Fiddlesticks, but with cameras and prizes and shit.
Seriously, who auditions for this shit? Isn’t there one where you go on a date and all your exes are talking to your date through a fucking bug in his ear? What person calls up two exes and is like: “Hey, I have this great idea! Let’s be on a show that will guarantee our mutual celibacy until the end of time!” And wasn’t there one where you can say “Next!” and end a date, like, three minutes after you meet the loser? Actually… That show’s kinda on target, you know? No need to ghost when network television cuts the cord for you.
Links Hipsters Hate
She makes people play “Holland, 1945” over the phone? It just doesn’t. Get. Old! Catching up with the hipster grifter
In the name of all things holy, somebody please make this not so. Trend to rediscover: clogs
Wouldn’t be doing my job if I didn’t link to this. Please note how the bands have all been styled to look like Hanson: Brooklyn’s Sonic Boom—How New York became America’s music capital again
Unintentionally HI-larious headline, CNN. Well done. Chili Pepper’s music school has kids hoppin’, learning
Lastly, just had to show you this excellent context-free line from the NYT: “Next thing is going to be a hipster candlestick maker.” This just in from the 1890s
Look, a party.
Send me nice fun links throughout the week, please. (Guess I can say “us” now?)
Anonymity
So, it’s time we formally introduced ourselves to the gaping maw that is the Internet. Hi, I’m Brenna (the little one with the big hair), and I’m Andi (the tall one with the short hair).
After months of bloggin’ at ya, we were growing weary of people thinking of us as an aging ex-hipster with a potbelly and thinning hair who lives in Bushwick—seriously, someone legit thought that was who we are. So we decided to tell you a bit about ourselves.
FAQ
Do you hate hipsters?
No. We do not hate hipsters.
Are you hipsters?
Andi: Meh, I don’t fall too far along that continuum.
Brenna: We maintain that that is not a question anyone would ever answer in the affirmative.
Why did you start this blog?
Because we thought it would be a fun thing to do. We used to write long e-mails to each other about our adventures in Brooklyn, etc.—topics we currently cover in the blog. We thought this shit was funny and decided to make our musings public.
What do you guys do?
Brenna: I work for the Internet.
Andi: I’m an editor at a ladymag.
Wait, you guys are girls?
Yes.
But you write like dudes.
Shrug.
Are you actually really mean?
Brenna: I punch babies.
Andi: No, we’re not mean.
Then how are you able to write in such a mean manner?
Well, it’s all a character, isn’t it? SHH is a humor blog. It’s meant as entertainment, not as a tool to hurt or berate anyone. We don’t base posts on specific people (although we have some friends who quite like being mentioned), and often draw from our own experiences.
Do you agree with everything in your blog?
Brenna: I like MGMT. “The Handshake” is my jam.
Andi: Sometimes I am scarily enthusiastic. And I like my apartments clean.
Are you looking into the camera and smiling?
Kinda.
Ew.
Sweatpants With Writing Across the Butt
Look, that asshole is saying something. Oh, I meant the chick in the sweatpants, but, yeah, that works, too.
Names That Were Popular in the Early ’90s
It’s nice to meet you, Tiffany/Zack/Crystal/Madison/Brooke. I’m so sorry.
