NOT UNLIKE Breaking Bad or a great blowjob, all good things must come to an end, even if that ending is hard to swallow. This is the final edition of Headshots, dear loyal readers. We’ve accepted a once in a life time opportunity as General Manager of a junior hockey franchise in northern Ontario, and with all the puck bunnies, homoerotism, and misogyny, we won’t have time to bring you your favorite column anymore.
The interns with passports are coming with us. They’re excited to see this Canada I’ve been telling them about, the dystopic socialist wasteland where everything is free and the tax rate is 123 percent. As I write this, they’re packing up Headshots headquarters and listening to the Rosetta Stone Canadian language tutorial. It’s quite adorable. They can’t say “Toronto” without giggling.
So how do we part ways? How do we say goodbye to each other after two years of columnly love? Well, we wanted to leave you with something of value, something tangible, something you can take with you on the mystical STD-ridden voyage that we call life.
So we’re gonna tell you how to love up on a hipster.
There’s a lot of hipster backlash, but we don’t buy it. Hipsters are the new model of sexy. Hipsters are the new orange. They’re so hot it hurts. I can’t even look art a pair of Chucks without getting aroused. And hipsters love to love. So, as a bon adieu, here are the 5 steps you need to take to get inside a hipster’s Levis.
Don’t say we never gave you nuthin’.
1. Style and Indifference
Much is made about hipster style, as well as they laissez-faire indifference towards the world. But do you realize that they’re one and the same?
The style is a contrived indifference, as is the attitude that accompanies it, much like Headshots’ ex-girlfriends philosophy on sex. You don’t care so much, that you come around the back end and care in spades.
Oh, and you’ll need some black-rimmed glasses. And some chucks. And dark blue Levis. And some plaid stuff. And a wool knit hat. (Toque in Canadian.) And be sure to always look like you don’t give a fuck, but you’re mischievous.
2. Get a Bike
The hipster bikes everywhere. And not some suped up Norco, either.
The bike needs to be barely rideable in appearance, but actually in mint shape. Hipsters even have sex on bikes. It’s magical.
The hipster won’t care if you’re driving a Saab or that you take public transit. She hates all of those things. So if you wanna get your handle bar between her spokes, you gotta get a new ride.
And be prepared to talk about your bike endlessly. And give it a retro name like Wilma or Harold. Your bike will need its own Facebook profile, even though you’re too cool to have one yourself.
Neither do we, but if you want to get your banana seat under her frame, you’ve gotta adapt.
3. Arcade Fire
Here’s a little secret. No one likes Arcade Fire. In fact, most people have never even heard one of their songs. Hell, they might not even have any songs. Their CDs could be recordings of llamas fucking walruses (walrusi? walreese?) and we’d never know. Because what’s important about Arcade Fire to the hipsterverse is that they are the greatest thing to happen to music since Lou Reed blew Iggy Pop in the alley behind CBGB’s while David Byrne watched.
But the music matters not.
Nuthin’ gets a hipster wetter than Miley Cyrus in a Footlocker than intellectual Arcade Fire talk. And just make it up. An example: “The integrity of Neon Bible’s liberalism is dreadfully philisophical in its sanctimoniousness.”
Midway through that sentence you were getting a tugger from a girl with an ironic Q-bert t-shirt.
In order to get into a hipster’s panties you need to either live in Brooklyn or plan on moving to Brooklyn soon.
It’s like the city that Urban Outfitters made. It’s where hipsters congregate to write a novel or start a band that prominently features the theremin.
Brooklyn is urban Viagra to the hipster. Hell, just mentioning BK landmarks will get them soaking through their pillow case dresses. I once got to seventh base with a hipster by just whispering Pete’s Candy Store in her ear.
Hipsters love them some sweet Kentucky whiskey. So get to know the brands, get to love the sweet caramel kindness wrapped around three hopeful ice cubes. Get used to the taste of Bulleit or Basil Hayden on your tongue in the morning. Embrace the way in which it’ll take you to a drunken happiness. Hold the glass the way you’d hold life itself. it’s not just a drink, it’s a way of being.
But this ain’t Pabst, kids, so be careful. Moderation is key, especially because bourbon dick is ten times worse than whiskey dick. It’s a fact. We asked scientists.
So, fare thee well my Headshoters. We’ve loved our time in this space. And we’ll leave you the way Mrs. Headshots number three left us, “Remember, it wasn’t an orgasm unless I told you it was.”
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