A Few Words of Explanation

Today a loyal reader asked a very interesting question about yesterday's update*: how can I dislike hipsters but still kind of like their women? They're the same damn species, aren't they? That they are, but as nature often shows us, the genders of a given species can often be wildly different. Think of the cardinal, for instance, or the peacock. But don't think too much, because the males of those species are the ones with prettier colors. You're on the Interwebs; it's ok to pretend an analogy works even though it kind of doesn't.

Anyway, our friend the table is back to help us out with this one. Bulleted list is on vacation. Once again, scroll down. I swear it's down there somewhere (yes, that's what she said, har har har).

Reasons to like hipster girls	Reasons to dislike other types of hipsters
Tight jeans	Tight jeans
Tight t-shirt with words or pictures attempting to be clever	Tight t-shirt with words or pictures attempting to be clever
Funky hair	Funky hair
Star tattoos	Star tattoos
PBR	PBR
Plays in trendy band	Plays in trendy band
	...wait, those things are all the same.
	Do you really think this kind of comparison is funny?
	How could you possibly think writing about how all the things that make male hipsters intolerable actually make female hipsters attractive would be entertaining? You're an idiot. I didn't think it was possible, but you make the Internet dumber.
I HATE YOU RIGHT COLUMN YOU'RE NOT INVITED TO MY TABLES ANYMORE!!!!!	Have fun with your one column tables, dillhole.

It should also be noted that my hair apparently is an avid reader of this lovely blog. The day after I committed to cutting it, it decided to look frickin' awesome all day. It's won itself a temporary reprieve, but it's still on thin ice. One lock out of place and I swear I'm reaching for the FloBee.

*This may or may not have been a pretend conversation I had with the smelly homeless man sitting next to me on the T today. When one takes public transportation as often as I do, the line between reality and fantasy becomes a bit blurry. Riding the Red Line every day for a month is like going on a year long crack binge. There may not have even been a homeless man there; I may not have even been on the train. Maybe I rode a flying unicorn that farts rainbows to work. My head hurts, and yours probably should too if you're still reading this drivel.