Hipsters

Further evidence of the tragic decline of white America's youth, and further argument for greeting the invading hordes of swarthy Latino immigrants as liberators. Assholes to their very core, hipsters are tattooed, glassy-eyed alcoholics operating under the pretension of superiority. The insufferable narcissism of the hipsters stems from their belief that they are better than everybody else, despite not being good at anything. They perceive themselves to be the continuation of the beatniks and Bohemians, though the only art form the hipster excels at is criticism. The act of creation is largely absent in hipster communities, as an encyclopedic knowledge of pop-culture is more valued than the contribution to it. Despite being consumers, not producers, of culture, hipsters feel they are the cutting edge of Generation Y. This assertion, even if it were true, is about as impressive as claiming to be the best astrophysicist in Uganda. The hipster canon is limited to the likes of Chuck Palahniuk, Michele Gondry, and Arcade Fire, which they vainly believe to be esoteric. Works of art or activities deemed to fall under the status quo are typically looked down upon by hipsters. This elitism is the genesis of another favorite hipster past-time: not liking things. The confused, perpetually adolescent mind of the hipster has found a way to cope with this disdain for all things, however: irony. Through irony hipsters can simultaneously enjoy something like power metal or cowboy hats without the appearance of sincerity. Hipster activities include kickball, forming bands, and shopping at second-hand clothing outlets. Physically, hipsters have no asses, twig legs, and beer bellies, combining the worst aspects of middle-aged alcoholics and Auschwitz survivors, though with less worldly charm and worse tattoos, respectively. Hipster men are effeminate dandies who weep after sex and continually flip the hair out of their eyes. Hipster women are vapid hags who attach themselves, not unlike barnacles, to more creative and talented people, hoping to fill the chasm in their souls by filling the chasm between their legs.

Eurotrash

The Eurotrash lifestyle generally revolves around attending all night raves. Unfortunately, house music and designer drugs do not a man make. Eurotrash have never heard of whiskey and as such cannot be considered men. These man-children are pampered throughout their lives - by their mothers, with whom they live well into their 30’s, their governments, and their eventual spouses (ersatz mothers) - and as such never mature to anything above the reasoning capacity of an adolescent. This soft living has ensured that no Eurotrash can put up drywall, change a tire, throw a punch, or drink anything stronger than a mojito. It's been said they can become quite proficient at a sport involving juggling a ball with one's feet and falling down in theatrical spasms at, and even be inspired to violence because of it. If so, this may be the key to unlocking the suppressed brutality of the European genome, which has gone dormant in recent generations to the point that Eurotrash often capitulate their cities to tourists under the mistaken impression of a foreign invasion. One tourist in France on his honeymoon, Michael Long of Alabany, NY, was able to establish a fiefdom in Marseilles from 1998-2001 before local authorities realized their error. The situation has become so dire that the Moors are engaged in reconquering Europe, one dirty kebab stand at a time. This may, ultimately, be unnecessary, as Eurotrash countries all experience negative population growth due to generations of European men losing their potency from lack of bourbon, fist-fights, and legal handguns. Like adolescents everywhere, Eurotrash are willing to expound on any subject no matter how ludicrously uninformed on it they may be, and hold all manner of idealistic notions supported by the propaganda of their left-wing, socialist governments. Like all groups of people whose moniker contain the suffix "trash", Eurotrash equate consumption with class. As a result, at any given moment Eurotrash have more than $2000 of clothes, jewelry, sunglasses, and accessories on them, more money than they have spent on health-care and public transportation over the course of their lives. Eurotrash governments support this addiction by giving a monthly stipend of E2000 to Eurotrash in order to keep them from going on strike. Fortunately, if current demographic trends continue, the Eurotrash will go extinct in favor of peoples better prepared to handle life outside the womb. Within two generations, the whole of Europe will be blacker than South Chicago, and for the first time in European history the people who live there will be able to enjoy Bob Marley with some shred of legitimacy. If there is one good thing about Eurotrash, it’s that they wouldn’t lift a finger to save a drowning gypsy, that particular oppressed ethnic group being a little too close to home for them to pretend to care about.

Mothers

One might think that, upon reaching adulthood, mothers no longer have any control over their lives. This is a grave error indeed, as anyone who has ever gone to jail for blowing a .05 on a field sobriety test can attest to. Not satisfied with dominating the lives of their children, mothers seek to spread their vile blend of sanctimony and megalomania through the political process. Because of this, perfectly reasonable activities like driving while intoxicated, living next door to a sex offender, and discharging firearms within city limits have been made into risky endeavors. Mothers are avowed enemies of heavy metal, drugs, unprotected sex, violent video games, and practically anything else that can make a few fleeting moments of life seem bearable. This desire to direct and control comes from the natural egotism of the mother, who, immediately upon discharging an oily parasitic critter from her womb, believes herself wise, experienced, and on a personal mission to look out for the common good. Mothers’ hobbies include complaining to their resigned, weary spouses, instilling deep sexual neurosis in their male children, fretting irrationally, and ruining everybody’s fun. Mothers possess this protective instinct because, unlike people who forge a legacy by creating something in business, the arts, or society, a mother’s only chance for the immortality of being remembered after one’s death is their children. Not surprisingly, the number of critters a mother bears screaming into this world is directly proportional to how little she expects to accomplish over the course of her life. The only escape from this emotional albatross of an asshole is the hope that, in some enlightened future, children will be spawned in laboratories and raised by the state. Until that glorious day arrives, sensible people must continue to cope with mothers by seeing them once a year at Thanksgiving, ignoring their phone calls, and talking about them extensively in group therapy sessions.