Thursday, September 28, 2006



It was a slow news week in the AFC West, what with three of the four teams on a bye. But that still didn’t stop me from turning this is late… again. So for you six people who are going to read this, I’ll give this piece a reason to be late. See, this is:


For those who don’t know (luckily for you), Willismsburg is a part of Brooklyn where the masses of New York newbies come to be “hip” and “all dat” with their small-town escapin’ ass. It used to be, like all pre-hipster domains, a place where artists found cheap, industrial lofts where they could create art. This is a place where you could wear Dickies and John Deere clothing without being ironic—you just didn’t want to get scalded by the 1200-degree burning oven for your glass-blown housewares. Then, one by one, following their Ben Smith shoes, smelling cheap rent for the picking, they ventured from all over to find the best in ironic t-shirts and Bolivian marching powder. There’s a reason why the only way to get there from Manhattan is the L train, people. I’m not saying that all hipsters are bad—I used to be a half-hipster, half-human myself, kinda like Blade, minus the vampires. But the city of New York… nay, the WORLD, would be better off if they didn’t exist. Except hipster girls. They’re hawt.

Anyway, I thought that with all the rage (six months ago) of people comparing X to pop culture icons, I thought I’d do my little twist. And why compare this particular group? Because I hate all parties involved—even…

I loved you once. Your bad-assed attitude and disregard for rules. That’s why you moved to Oakland, isn’t it? To get away from that hell-hole town (L.A.) and live a life of freedom in a black hole of nothingness. But since you’ve been back, you’ve been nothing but bad news. Sure, there’s been some good times—that time in 2002 when you almost made me happy, but then that asshole ex of yours beat me up. It’s been all downhill from there. You can’t get along with anyone, I can’t take you anywhere without being made fun of—usually to my face. Luckily, you’re oblivious to everything and can’t hear a word they say. YOU ARE: THE WILLIAMSBURG QUEEN OF THE HARPIES

Hey man, chill out? Chill out? All you do is chill out. No highs, no lows, you just are. Why? Because you’re strung out. I come over to buy a little weed off of you, and you tell me tales that are just boring about back in the days when you used to wear a blazer every “game day” and the time you thought a guy named Elvis was going to take you to Graceland. But it’s always been a dream. Worst of all? For the past four years, every time I went over, I had to hear that damn emo in the background. Crying and shit, while you just languish in that shithole you call a home. YOU ARE: THE AGING HIPSTER WHO MOVED TO WB BECAUSE HE FIGURED HIS APPEARANCE WOULD BE TOO GHASTLY FOR THE LES

Ah, Ms. Pretty Body. The Belle of the Ball with her stylish clothes and subtle smile. Even though you’re just as old as all the other girls in BillyBurg, your youthful parts make you seem hotter then the rest. Most people think you’re going all the way now, but you tell them to wait. You’ll get there. Your sunny disposition comes from your roots, where you’re from, but don’t let them try to walk all over you. You’ll fucking shank them (especially if it’s against the Queen of the Harpies—you hate her). You’ll go fucking wild, drinking your Lean and driving your car, getting shot by the cops and livin’. Sure, you’ve been shunned before by the pretty boys, but you think you’ve got the right guy now. You’re poised to go to the top, and you’ll step on each of their heads getting there, YOU ARE: THE SMART ONE WHO JUST LIKES TO LIVE LIFE—AND A LITTLE COKE

Look at you—a Likin’ Park Tee? Come on, dude, you’ve gotta live life a little harder than that. You’re in Williamsburg, not a skate park in St. Paul. Where’s your Clap Your Hands T Shirt? A smile? You don’t smile in the ‘Burgh, son! You frown because you’re an… artist? Actually, no, you’re an investment banker who bought property in the WB and is charging people an arm and a leg to live there. The only thing mile high about you is the exorbitant rent you charge. Yeah, you’ve got it all—a couple of masters, that chick licking your shoulder—but what you don’t have is cred, man. Your masters-that hose faced guy wrote all your papers, but your racist ass didn’t give props to the black guy who did all the research. That girl licking your shoulder—it used to be a man, man. YOU ARE: THAT ASSHOLE WHO USED TO LIVE ON THE UPPER EAST SIDE, BUT THEN REALIZED THAT YOU CAN GET SLEEZY WOMEN TO SLEEP WITH YOU FOR A LOT LESS IN WB

Oh yeah, and last week, Plummer got his groove back, Javon Walker is happy, Tatumn Bell is now officially the man for Shanahan and the Denver D is fo’ reals.

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