Stuff Hipsters Hate Read Online Free PDF

hipster. A bar may be acceptable on one shining Tuesday night, when the beer is flowing like a glorious waterfall of intoxication and everyone is eminently fuckable, and
    Ordering a Pitcher: “I didn’t even know this place fucking had pitchers. Now, I’m not opposed to sharing, but pitchers connote a kind of chest-pounding camaraderie that makes my pale skin crawl. I can’t ruminate on my wasted existence if I have to wait for some slathering bro to allot me my communal mead. Dude, the only time you’ll ever see me drinking from a fucking common well is when it’s overflowing with liquid hallucinogens.”
     
    Trivia Night: “Oh, fuck, who are all these bros and why are they holding slips of paper? Maybe if I have enough whiskey-sodas, the incessant cheering and corny jokes will merely fade into the white noise my liquor-soaked brain makes when I’ve had one too many. Oh, shit. Look at this slack-jawed, frat-tastic crowd. First Bingo, and now this. The only kind of quiz I wanna take part in when I’m drinking is ‘How many fingers am I holding up?’”
     

     

completely lame that very same Friday, replete with white hats and sad men from Hell’s Kitchen who have decided to “cut loose” in Williamsburg. Still, there are a few constants that render a bar completely unacceptable to frequent.
    Fancy Cocktails: “Why in the name of all that is holy is the drink that you are currently clutching in your claws pink ? I bet you shelled out, what, like 15 large for that sugar-infested, weak-ass beverage, which most likely goes by a moniker best suited to a stripper. I’d much rather earn my epic hangover the hard way—by drinking an entire sixer by my lonesome and then sharing a bottle of whiskey with my lady friend of ambiguous romantic status, who, I can assure you, would never drink anything pink—except maybe that red-flavored Four Loko.”
     
    Girls Who Dance Their Way onto the Dance Floor: “I hate you, three girls in bright dresses, looking like popsicles on heels and exchanging the overly excited, “Should we dance?!” nods. Now the three of you, shoulders swaying, hips bobbing, stank faces at full throttle, snake your way through the bar and deep into the crowded dance floor, leaving a sea of swiveling bros’ heads in your wake. You couldn’t wait ’til you got to the actual fucking dance floor to dance? Am I gonna see you twirking in a cage that floats slowly down from the ceiling like some stupid Crouching Dragon Hidden Whatever special effect? Christ. Stephen, let’s find a falafel stand and a liquor store and call it a night.”
     

     

CHAPTER 3
     
    APPAREL
     
 
    [CASE STUDY]
     
    Lionel S. is a particularly stylin’ brand of hipster. As a child, Lionel was mocked for his intense predilection for neon baseball caps and clogs. With eerie prescience, he bucked mall fashions and wore Doc Martens when everyone else was saving up for Nikes. But once he hit his 20s, local girls began fawning over his horn-rimmed glasses and whimsical horse-head belt buckles, and he thanked his lucky stars that when he was a youngster, his mother never bought him the “cool” Tommy Hilfiger shit the rest of the class adored—the gateway (designer) drugs to sure bro-ism.
     
     
     
    One sunny day in December of 2008, Lionel visited his local Goodwill, where he purchases the majority of his clothing (with the exception of his raw denim skinny jeans, on which he spends the equivalent of one month’s rent). Upon entering the store, he spied a red mechanic’s jumpsuit hanging from the wall next to an array of so-ugly-they’re-cool Cosby sweaters. Emblazoned across the front pocket was the name “Ted.” Bursting with excitement, Lionel purchased said jumpsuit (for the low, low sum of $6.99), and proceeded to wear it every Wednesday for three months. He referred to the article of clothing simply as “Ted.” Girls swooned over Lionel when he was attired in “Ted,” and wrote Missed Connections to: “The