Frozen yogurt is, however, universally the most pretentious and therefore useless dessert.

Actually, it may not even be a dessert. The litmus test, aside from the taste of it, is the plethora of storefronts peddling this enigmatic frozen treat the way Wes Anderson sells lost paternity as drama, with earnest-yet-sly-winking nods of knowitall gustatory celebration, each name more bizarre than the last. Red Mango. Not a mango bodega. Flurt. I'd rather not. Öko. Like a cryogenic, fruit-enhanced Beatle-killer. You have to be Norwegian to even enter an /eks/ (Slashing prices upward!).

And this list doesn't take into account the numerous Los Angeles mini-froyo dealers "specializing" in the icy concoctions. Feeling a bit overwhelmed by the choices actually proves you have a soul; if you don't feel the faint whiff of obtuse hipsterism spawned by names like CéFiore, YogurtBerry, BerryLine, Yo Berry, Kiwiberri, Snowberry, Roseberry, Berri Good, Limelite, Bear Naked, Pingo Berry, Peach House, Dolci Mango and Cantaloop, well, you're just a tool. The general math nomenclature seems to be either the combination of colors and fruits, or something that sounds like it was barfed out in a back alley behind a Karl Lagerfeld photo shoot.

Icy crystallized yogurt brings to mind the fjords of Norway, or perhaps the cliffs of Dover in December. The AC is always cranked like a European winter, but stepping into a gelato/yogurt proprietorship, and I'm thinking especially of Pinkberry, is functionally no different than visiting a very small version of Tokyo. While the sheen of curvacious, hard white plastic furniture and translucent hot green and orange table tops might bring to mind a certain Barberella-esque whimsy, the Eastern European-Asian fusion music pulls you back from your futuristic flight of fancy into a Hell constructed by a Japanese Eve Ensler who thinks the dessert world needs more clitoral references or exotic shampoos.

The Kings of Wham!

If Wham! mated with Kings of Leon, their babies would be poster children for the Frogurt Franchises of the world.

While there might be money in the frozen yogurt stand today, there may be a happy rainbow to this tale of Ugly Dorothy. Tangy yogurt (isn't that just sherbet?) has limited appeal in the low-to-mid middle class, and when the economy takes another nosedive, elitist yogurteers won't be able to rely on the fawning appeal of overpriced frozen custards and high-end fruit toppings to your inner giggling pierced teenager. And why not?

Because you'll be busy bailing out your hipster friends who spent their trust funds on the milky ice suds you can't seem to stop posting to Facebook about.

Because when you dip your tiny organ-o-plastic spoon into the melting glop of post-cow-tal bliss, you hear the untainted Western man whisper "Why?"

Because frozen yogurt is the Wild West aspar-tamed into soothing nihilism, propped by the devils of large blueberry toppings on one shoulder, pomegranate seeds on the other, each urging you further into the excess of elitism.

Because deep in your heart you know how false a dessert frozen yogurt really is, how deceptive neon lighting can make angels of a writhing swath of Greenwich Village denizens.

Because when Hell freezes over, it's not from the rare, the scarce, or the unexpected, but from the frigid familiarity of the fifteen ounce fruit parfait.

Because there's nothing so fleeting, so faint, as fifteen minutes perched in faux splendor, fixated by your frozen f***ing yogurt.

The Mussed look had its day. And I think that day is now over. And even if it's not over for those kids who are currently being weaned on Jonas Brothers firehose spray ejaculations, surely it's over for thirty-somethings. Isn't it time you stopped pretending to be 24 and too damned cool for the world? Isn't it time you actually took the time to present a look that doesn't say, "I made it this far, you should be proud I put in the effort to even come"?

We suppose there are merits to the mussed look--it gives you a certain slackness that renders as unaffected when viewed through the lens of teenage uncertainty. But aren't you supposed to have most of life figured out by now? We think the rule should be, if you have a mortgage, you can't do the bed head look anymore. Or if you work at any financial institution. Or if you have kids.

Deliberate Bed Head is about as stunningly original as a tube of toothpaste, and even less meaningful. Now, I know what you're thinking. It's not just the look. It's an entire indie culture projected onto fashion and style and food, and the bed head look is predicated upon a preconceived notions of what is cool. It's thumbing the establishment and square fascism of corporate tooldom!

Except that every corporate stooge, from exec to unpaid intern, is sporting the look. So what does that make you, Mr. Indie Fare? You're not supporting the revolution just because you buy a bottle of TGI Catwalk and stick your legs in a pair of skinny jeans.

You may think mussing your hair gives you authority to speak with passion about things like Darfur, climate change, and the latest Apple Orgasmo that you can stick in your embroidered jean pocket, but isn't it more accurate to say that adjusting your hair so it looks unadjusted is the paramount of hypocrisy? You might think you have a mind of your own with that f**king independent look, but marketing execs have you pegged, my shallow friend, and you're the first person they line up against the wall to shoot when the real revolution comes.

Combing your hair might just be the craziest, most daring thing you do all day. You might give it a try, and see the world through a pair of adult eyes. Keep your youth. Don't hold on to your malignant hair style. I suggest you do what Colonel Zaroff does in "The Most Dangerous Game." Let the bed head out into the jungle. Then hunt it, shoot it, and stuff it for future visitors to see what a man you really are.

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.