Cultural Imperialist

"Scathing Spats on Shallow Subjects"


Fri Jul 28




Hipster Gyrations Don’t Equal Dancing

Photo by AH!Photography

Kay, brahs and chicas. It's time to put an end to this spasmodic bullspit you hipster wackjobs call dancing. It's not enough you look like seizure patients off your Ritalin or whatever, but you're downright dangerous with your spiked hair, your white Marc Ecko glasses that you don't even frakking need, your striped shirt and your trucker hat...gyrating like Mariah just gave you a front row pass to the world Boobie shaking contest, and busting your nuts all over the Parquet with no regard for human decency, safety, or trigonometry.

You dipsters are ruining what could be moderately good fun at a swanky joint. As soon as someone turns up DJ Tiësto you lose all bodily inhibition and motor control and flail about. Even if the music is dope—and nope, it's a joke—it still doesn't give you the right to wutz in five-dimensional space-time. You take up more room than a Busby Berkeley choreography scene if it was invaded by Gestapo officers dressed up as the A Team and turned into an impromptu lesson in how to smoke crack rock through your pooper.

Every time I see one of you tan-skinned circus ringmaster coat-wearing unnecessarily grown-and-ironically-groomed facial hair sporting mincing little fucktards masturbating against some skanky little tube-topper, wiggling your hands around in the air as if you're worshiping some anti-symmetry deity, it makes me want to seriously f*ck your sh*t up.

Or better yet, I'd like to stand up, walk over to your marker-colored Converse All-Stars ass and hand you a card that reads, “Congratulations, you're a douche.”

Get a life, brocephus. Just because you woke up this morning with a Whole Foods hangover after drinking a six-pack of PBR, slumping on top of the pierced-up Goth chick who thinks horn-rimmed glasses makes you have bigger boners, banging until that annoying Arcade Fire singer hits that really high note, then promising to take her to the Tattle Tale Club downtown because you want to let her down easy, doesn't make you God's gift to the dance floor.

In point of fact, you're a total menace. Get lost, douche.

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