Graham and I were driving around the other day when he grumbled, “Man, I hate hipsters.” This wasn’t because of any conversation we’d been having or any recent hipster-related incident. Maybe he’d just seen one ambling up the street and felt the need to express a shared opinion. Shared with me, I mean, because really…man, I hate hipsters.

You know what, hipsters? You’re ridiculous. You’re not unique, you’re not artistic, you’re not creative. You’re trying to steal my grandpa’s style and you’re fucking failing at it, because that man hadn’t bought a new article of clothing since 1968 and he still rocked every single thing in his closet with 5 billion times more panache than you could possibly hope to do. You’re not anything, hipsters. You’re not a movement or a belief or an example of cool. You’re a bunch of dopey scenester morons who try so hard to be different that you’ve become this plaid amoeba of pretentious sameness. In your efforts to stand out from the rest of the population, you’ve cloned yourselves into a ratty-assed hipster army of lazy retards who can’t manage to find clothes that fit or are weather-appropriate. You have no real ideas, no personalities, and while it’s obvious that you’re all trying very hard to be world-weary, cynical dicks who are immune to the phony bullshit of your white kid lives, you should know that there’s a vast difference between actually being an asshole and pretending to be an asshole, and that always, fucking always, you will crack because you’re not as good of an actor as you think you are.

THESE GUYS.

I fucking love these guys. Every single one of them. Because, like me, they don’t seem to have a problem with anyone who genuinely enjoys wearing supertight jeans or listening to whatever -core is ironically awesome these days. If that’s who you are, fine. That’s great. Get out there and let your freak flag fly, and while you’re doing that, try not to sneer at anyone who happens to enjoy something that lots of other people happen to like. Charred animal flesh, for example, or Bruce Springsteen songs. People can like different things, you know, and for entirely different reasons than wanting to be the only person who does.

Hipsters, listen. I sort of understand. I know that it feels pretty great to be the brightest, most interesting, just awesomest person in the room. I really do. It hasn’t happened much in my life, but those rare and fleeting moments were it for me. So if that’s what you were going for, I’d be the first person to cheer you on. Maybe we could do a Top Gun-style high five in passing. But the thing is, you’re not doing this because it makes you happy. I know you’re not. You know how I know? Because you all look fucking miserable.

You slouch around with your bad posture and your worse hair, body unbathed and clothes unwashed, and you scowl at everything and everyone who isn’t as cool as you. You say just as many mean things as I do but at least the mean things I say are sometimes funny, plus I’m totally willing to laugh at the shitshow that is my life while you have zero sense of humor about your own. Admit that you look like a cartoon! That’s all I’m asking. Be honest about what’s going on with all of this and we can all look forward to pants that don’t belong on a 9-year-old girl, music that no one needs to be ashamed to enjoy (except for the obvious, meaning whatever shit was playing while we stood in line for the zombie safari thing yesterday but we were also in the middle of Missouri so what else can be expected?), and getting rid of all the bullshit that would have made my grandfather beat your dummy hipster ass.