Well, that’s it. You’ve come to the end of the Look at This F*cking Hipster book. I trust you’ve enjoyed yourself and let out a few hearty laughs in the process. What’s most important, though, is that you’ve come away knowing a great deal more about hipsters and hipsterdom. Just kidding! You have learned absolutely nothing from reading this book! (And, honestly, if you’re upset about that, you should ask yourself why you were trying to learn anything from a picture book with the word “F*cking” in the title. Dumbass.)
You know, I hope that, if anything, this book helps to squelch all the hipster hatred out there in the world, not promote it. Hipsters really aren’t that bad. And they’re here to stay. It’s now up to the rest of us to learn to accept it. What we’re witnessing is a cultural shift. It’s a natural evolutionary progression, or perhaps a new type of groupthink, that helps people avoid the pressures of real life by normalizing and extending mental juvenescence well beyond physical juvenescence. If 40 is the new 30, then I guess 30 is the new 15.
Is it annoying to overhear some pretentious jerk with a wispy mustache talk about his graphic novel adaptation of The Fountainhead? Of course it is. That guy is awful. But you must keep things in perspective. It’s not like Waterworld has happened yet. We don’t all live on floating piles of garbage in the ocean, worried that filthy pirates will barge in on their Jet Skis and rape us for our cigarettes and mason jars full of dirt. No. We’ll leave all that for our grandchildren to deal with.
Luckily, we live in a world where becoming a hipster is a choice—deliberate or not—made by rational adults. But I worry for the future. I see a new dark age approaching, where that choice is taken away. A day when children are taught to mistrust mainstream music, unused clothing, or anything cooked with gluten. A grim wasteland where babies smoke tiny Parliaments and go to sleep with the 33 1/3 series as their only bedtime stories. A new generation without any values, groomed into a counterculture with no knowledge of the culture against which they counter.
When that terrible day arrives, I don’t know what I’ll do. Will I set myself on fire like the monk on the cover of that Rage Against the Machine album? Or will I just give myself up to the hipster babies, letting them rip the flesh from my body, like piranhas do to a goat, until all that’s left of me is my gleaming white skeleton? (Sorry, I forgot to mention, they’ll all be cannibals.)
Yes, that will be a sad, sad day indeed.