I Wish that all Children of the World could Bask in the Glow of the Hipster Working at Intelligentsia Coffee Right Now

I treat myself on Friday afternoons to a frou-frou coffee drink from the best coffee peddlers in town, Intelligentsia. I almost denied myself today, which would have been one of the biggest mistakes of my entire life. I would never have been able to spin for my children and their children the tale of one of the most magnificent hipsters thine eyes hath ever beheld. I believe in this case that the best way to proceed is from the waist up:

1. Red flannel lumberjack shirt
2. Red flannel lumberjack shirt sleeves rolled tightly all the way to high bicep
3. Black forearm spiral tat
4. Vest
5. Vest is brown corduroy on the front
6. Vest is paisley on the back
7. Striped suspenders
8. Suspenders worn outside of vest
9. Tom Selleck chest hair
10. Pec tats
11. Tight silver necklace
12. Necklace contains numerous charms which includes but is not limited to:
a. an old-timey key
b. quartz crystal
c. dream-catcher
d. picture of Jesus
e. picture of 18th century French noblewoman (Marie Antoinette possibly?)
13. Nose ring
14. "Bull Ring" style nose ring through septum
15. Those goddamned stupid assed fucking black barrel ear-plug thingys that create increasingly larger holes in your ear lobe as you increase the size of the barrel
16. Studded bar piercing through top of ear
17. Normalish hair cut in the front, which becomes a choppy faux-hawk in the back, which ultimately blends into......
18. A fucking rat tail

A straight fucking flush to the Ace. Lets see you beat that, and unless you're holding 5 aces, you ain't beating it. When you are that fucking rad do you even realize how much energy and strength it requires just to keep yourself upright? Do you? You're riding your bike to work? Guess what, fuck you. He's riding a unicycle to work. You're reading Dylan Thomas in the dark corner of a pub and drinking a Duvel? Well go fuck yourself. My man just finished reading a collection of Moliere while dressed as Charlie Chaplin and drinking a "Sidecar" out of a pewter mug next to a statue honoring Cesar Chavez west of Humboldt Park. Oh, you're driving a metallic green Ford Pinto with a Jimmy Carter for President sticker on the bumper? Well you're a douche-bag because our protagonist doesn't even have a fucking license. You can all take your skinny black jeans and your Pabst Blue Ribbon beer and ride your Dutch De Fietsfabriek bicycles right the fuck back to Wicker Park, because this hombre doesn't give one shit.

Hey Barack, Thanks for Ending that War in Iraq Like You Hinted Around that You Would

Cats are still all over that joint, getting their dicks blown off. Country isn't one goddamned inch closer to governing itself, and do they even want to? Democracy doesn't work for everyone, get over it. And while we're at it, solid work escalating the clusterfuck in Afghanistan that is similarly going nowhere fast.

I'm really the aggrieved party here. I was going to write in Lawrence Taylor for president and mail it in back in 2008. Instead, based primarily on my confidence that he'd end the oil theft in the desert, I got my ass out of bed early and waited in a fucking obscene line to vote for the black Tony Robbins. What a waste of my morning. Rest assured I won't repeat that mistake in 2012. My time would be better spent shooting crank into my toenails with toothless hillbillies in a Red Roof Inn underneath a highway overpass in Huntington, West Virginia.

I can sum up American Governance by quoting one scene from an episode of The Simpsons: Krusty the Clown is voted into the House of Representatives by the citizens of Springfield because he swore that he would have planes rerouted so they no longer were a noise pollution issue. When he fails to do this, the Simpson family tracks him down in Washington. They find Krusty sitting in a bar on Capitol Hill completely pissed on a bottle of Bourbon. Lisa yells at him, "Krusty, you didn't keep your campaign promise!". Krusty responds with, "Did I promise to become a whore for big oil?". Poignant.

Judging by the Number of Times You've Revved the Engine on Your Crotch-Rocket at this Red Light, I'm Going to Assume you Have a Huge Penis

Vroom, VROOOMMM you bad mutherfucker! The chick in the Ford next to you just slid right out of her seat. I'm harder than a diamond in an ice storm, and I'm not even gay. That jacket is fucking PIMP! How many dragons emerging from the sun can fit on one royal blue leather jacket anyway??? And who needs a helmet when you've got half a bottle of L.A. Looks in your hair? You wouldn't be revving the engine on that neon orange beaver trapper at a stop light and staring at people unless your dick, is, HUGE. What are talking here, 3? 3.5? 4 inches? When you are packing serious heat like that your only recourse is to put $200 down on a new crotch rocket and finance the other $8,800 over 7 years. Its a win-win for everyone: They own your financial independence well into your 40's, meanwhile you're awesome. Its a no-brainer. Those other dip shits are in college preparing for the reality of their careers, like a bunch of suckers. You've got the foresight to sacrifice financial freedom later for rad now.

You Can Take Your Mahalo and Shove it Up Your Fit, Tan, Smiling Hawaiian Ass

"Mahalo". Go fuck yourself. While you're over here in your island paradise doing outdoorsy shit, relaxing on the beach with boat drinks and being generally pleasant and attractive, the rest of us are pissing away our lives in intemperate climates, spending half our day in a cage staring at computers, and generally getting our tits kicked in by The Man. So pardon fucking me if I don't Mahalo back at you, homie. Instead of spending all of your ample time pursuing the enjoyment of being, maybe you should get your ass indoors and start doing something you fucking hate all day for some asshole you can't stand, so you can support the payments on all the shit you never needed in the first place. Seriously guys, drop the coconut and get with the miserable, stressed-out plan already.

Maui's Weather Sucks

Seriously, how many 85 degree, sunny, moderately breezy days can you have in a row before you just shave your head, sport a black trench coat, walk into the Lahaina post office and start blowing mutherfuckers' heads off? Try sitting through a couple of Chicago winters and see how fucking Aloha you are then, assholes.

The Entire Palin Family are Trash as White as the Driven Snow

These fucktards truly have the "whole package". The patriarch is the First Dude, races shit with his drinkin' buddies, is dumber than a bag of hammers, and likely enjoys professional wrestling. We've got a matriarch who really serves as the patriarch, but with female genitalia. She's similarly stupid, but is willing to have her own parents tortured by The Spanish Inquisition if it promises to land her a 5 minute interview on Oprah. There are mentally disabled children, pregnant un-wed high-schoolers, wild drunken shopping sprees once the gang hits The Big Apple, baby-daddies walking away from the family and doing porn only to return once they realize it pays better to be a dingleberry on the ass of the Palins that it does to go solo and rely on your own severely limited intellect, and I'm pretty sure there are at minimum 17 cans of Busch in the fridge at all times. Sarah Palin isn't a politician, nor is she a viable candidate for the position of leader of government for one of the largest, wealthiest and most influential nations on earth. The fact that she is in fact a viable candidate for this position is laughable at best. Unfortunately the reality of the situation is that she is. But I digress. We've now got the ex-porn baby-daddy back in the picture to woo the critically stupid unwed baby-momma Palin daughter into marrying him. Meanwhile the mom is pretending to not sanction the union so that in due time she can call a high-ratings news conference to announce that she is capable of forgiveness and compassion as she tells morons everywhere that she now sanctions the marriage that she previously feigned not sanctioning (this is foreshadowing folks, just give it time, it will happen). We can only assume the First Dude is dealing with all of this the only way he knows how: pushing the gas pedal on some form of gas-powered vehicle until it hits metal, and drinkin' aggressively. The above is real. How amazing is that? The person you next call "President" might be from this very clan. There is no point in liberals or intellectual Republicans arguing further on the point of her not being fit to lead the United States. Its a waste of time because fit or unfit, it could happen. Palin is nothing more than Brittney Spears. But instead of Queen of Pop, a team of media and public relations experts are aiming to make her Queen of America. Quoth the Ozzie, "We're going off the rails on a crazy train..." We have to admire Sarah Palin. She is pretty, has great legs and decent tits. She knows nothing about politics, governance, law, the United States, and she has absolutely nothing between her ears....nada, zero, zip, zilch. If you want proof just look at a couple of her most shining moments:

Palin said Vladimir Putin flies his jet over Alaska on the way to D.C., which qualifies her on matters of foreign policy. Okay Tits McGhee, I'm sure Putin takes the 36-hour flight 3/4 of the way around the planet, via Siberia and Alaska, rather than take the 10-12 hour flight 1/4 of the way, via the Atlantic. Makes sense, you fucking twit.

She further highlights her foreign policy qualifications by saying she can see Russia from Alaska. The capital of Alaska is Juneau. Juneau is 600 air miles southeast of Anchorage. Anchorage is still far the fuck east of Russia. You can't fucking see Russia, you complete and utter lipsticked ass clown.

When Couric dropped the most challenging question in the history of man at her: "Name one newspaper or magazine", Palin was understandably stumped. I don't know which intellectual or fast talkin' snake oil salesman could have produced (and mind you, just one generic word would have sufficed) "The Times" or "The Post" or even "The Tribune", but I certainly don't want to be in the same room with that type of scumbag.

So kudos to her for ignoring her own intellectual constraints and using her jugs, her gams, her smile and unquenchable thirst for power to get where she is. In times past these attributes could get you far, say top of the charts, top of the box office, inheritance from a spiteful dying Texas oilman, a Kennedy brother's dick in your mouth, etc. However in this current epoch of media hysteria and the public's hunger for it, Palin is the one-in-a-million with a chance to parlay her qualities into a shot at the ultimate prize. We're talking about a bitch who would, without thinking twice, swim 5k through a lake of Ebola-positive baboon blood just to have her name in lights.

Should this Jerry Springer episode park its double-wide trailer at 1600 Pennsylvania Ave with the snow mobiles on blocks in the front yard and empty bottles of hooch on the porch in 2012, we've only got ourselves to blame. My sincere wish at that point is the First Dude to start hanging out with Slick Willy. Imagine all the 5's and 6's passed out naked all over the White House front lawn.....

If All the European Dudes I saw in Italy are any Indication, I need to Buy Some Denim Manpris...Stat

There are more pairs of manpris in Europe than you can shake a fucking stick at. Denim only sweetens the deal. From the large-headed, greasy-haired and violent look of the men most frequently adorned in the denim variety, I'm going to speculate that fabric is most popular in eastern Europe. Do not sleep on this fashion trend. You make fun of it now and see what happens later. You tune into Extreme Makeover Home Edition one fine evening, minding your own goddamn business and boom, Ty Pennington is hanging drywall in manpris. Then its too fucking late banejo, you're nothing but a follower if you buy them now. So where does that leave you? Walking down the street in a pair of above-the-knee shorts or god forbid full-length pants, like some kind of fucking schmuck. I'll be the guy on the other side of the street in cargo manpris and a dyed faux mullet, trailing bitches in my wake.