Every now and again, rarefied gems of such exquisite hipster stupidity come along that beg to be shared with everyone on the internets. See: Cobrasnake, shirts with ironic sayings printed on them, BANGS, auf’d condoms/swapping STDs and good old, trusty old American Apparel! The various blogs and bulletins hipsters post on myspace.com and the like are a veritable goldmine for this sort of thing. A treasure chest full of premium hipster idiocy, trust fund baby spit-up and temper tantrums. Here is where I collect the best of the worst and present them for your (dis)pleasure.

Welcome back to But Enough About You…the hipster overshare portion of the week where my douche is your douche! I really hate the motherfucker we’re featuring today. He epitomizes everything we despise about hipsters, and the best part is that he’s not even a genuine hipster. He’s just trying so desperately to fit in somewhere and be loved because he’s still all wounded over the fact that mommy formula-fed him as a baby or something, and he’s just grabbing whichever human-shaped template is closest and most likely to bed women. That, of course, is where the hipster bit comes in.

Meet Dick, kittens. Dick is a writer. A balding writer. A balding writer who plays rhythm guitar for a band that frequently performs without him. Dick is a man who walks out of the house in a too-short polo shirt and tries to pass off the subsequent emergency purchase of an I Heart NYC tee as “ironic.” That’s not ironic, Dick, that’s douche and a little sad. Wear shirts that fit you, please. It’s not hard. You know what else is sad? Dick adores romantic comedies. He loves watching them and he lives to try and write them. His favorite is Only You.

Just look at Dick, “professional believer in the impossible”, try his hand at the written word:

“A young redhead sits, not so quietly, next to me and begins to rage about how Nietschze’s philosophies should extend beyond the classroom and into their everyday existence. In her eyes, we’ ve never actually existed…as I continue to breathe. Funny, I suppose…It’s sad to know that she has based her entire young adult life on the writings of a dead man. And yet, I can’t turn myself away. Perhaps ignorance and self-reassurance is some form of entertainment…And so, I continue to watch. Her eyes grow wider with every point she makes. The only problem is, she isn’t making a point. At least, not one that hasn’t already been made by someone, somewhere. We steal words to stand of the shoulders of giants. And my young ‘red’ is no different…And what does she know? Nothing. Not what I know. Welcome to Manhattan…The West Village, to be precise. It is a hopeful haven frought with quasi-artists, quasi-intellectuals, quasi-neo-communists…etc….etc…yet, still…Quasi…”

Quasi what, Dick? Quasi writers? Like you? Sigh. Who is your audience, even? Do you know? Make up your mind. Stop trying to please everyone with your frenetic, mewling bullshit. You’re not a keen observer, you’re an asshole and it’s kind of creepy.

He continues…

“Something I discovered on my own. That’s what I do. Pick up the pieces where others left off. Find something another reporter overlooked. At the paper I work for, I’m known as ‘The Axe.’ And you don’t want ‘The Axe’ to fall on you. I’m the guy who goes deeper and farther than anyone else will for a story. If I could only apply the same to sexual terms, maybe my social calendar wouldn’t be so barren. Anyway, that’s not a topic I really wish to discuss at this juncture, so moving on…”

Breathlessly, he mentions pastrami later in the same paragraph. Honestly, we don’t want to hear it, Dick. We don’t want to know, OK? Jesus Christ, it’s like this is the product of a high school creative writing class or something. But, like, he’s balding. There’s no excuse! A few last things before I conclude with a verse of his fantastical poetry: Don’t wear flip-flops with your blazer, Dick. Please don’t. Especially not at night. In NYC. Do you even have a mother? I’m almost worried, but you’re an inconsiderate prick with no manners, so I’m going to go ahead and let it go. Wait, just two more and I’m done, I swear to God. You have terrible jeans and you are not a guy who can get away with that much v-neck. I’d really reconsider if I were you.

I trace my fingers on the shadows that linger
And they’re not mine
Step right. Step left.
And I’m left to my own devices
With prices placed on trinkets I’m longing to sell
Yet the buyers rebuttle
With their voices less than subtle
This freedom won’t come cheap
My voice is strained
I’ve prayed for rain
But it’s cold
And my fingers fear of reaching out

Yet my words will dance upon this tongue
And speak fluidly of things to come
Am I fooling you, or the fool am I?
As the sun will rise
Will the best part of me sigh?

Have at him, dear readers. Have yourselves a ball.

*Contributed by SkinnyBoneJones*