Honestly, who are you? 

Are you 1/2 gothic 1/2 preppy? 

Are you 100% Pure Alterna-Fuck? 

 Are you even clean? 

When I see a hipster, I want to vomit!  Yes, projectile vomit onto their ‘vintage’ concert t-shirt and skintight jeans!  They are lost dirty little fuckheads trying so hard to be different!  They spend more time on looking dirty than actually cleansing themselves!  And they spend more time criticizing others who are ‘too square’ than actually becoming experts on what they are criticizing us about! 

Really, you know that much about Eastern European history?  Really? 

And really, you know that much about cinematography and 1960′s Czech film noir?

Sure.

Just STFU! 

You hipsters kill me!

(I googled ‘stupid hipster’ and found the perfect illustration…Enjoy!)

Well, I’m 31 years old now and can pretty much beat my annual salary that my parents had no clue what organic food was back in 1978.   Both my parents were loyal Detroit Rock City factory workers and food had to be quick and easy!  My mother had no time to read labels to determine if the ingredients were healthy enough for me.  I was a formula-fed, Chef Boyardee eatin’, Mt. Dew drinkin’ kid!  Hey, I ended up graduating college and living in the ‘burbs- I’m pretty sure I didn’t come out that bad… 

Now that I am a mom raising a little girl in a somewhat health- conscious society, I am little paranoid about my every move.   Does this juice have too much sugar?  How many hot dogs are acceptable in a week?  Instant or homemade mashed potatoes?  Is Chef Boyardee safe?  Was it ever safe?  Organic milk vs. non-organic milk?  What’s it goin’ be?  Uh?  What’s it goin’ be, dammit! 

Being a parent is tough! 

Last Friday night I went to Trader Joe’s to pick up some cheap wine for my husband’s hunting trip.  While I was trying to find the perfect case of wine for a bunch of deer hunters, I couldn’t believe the amount of boxed organic foods.   Boxed organic crackers.  Boxed organic macaroni.  Boxed organic shepherd’s pie.  What?  Really?  Boxed shepherd’s pie?  Really?  Do you really think an Englishman would eat boxed shepherd’s pie? 

I guess there are some things we all expect to be processed (like Spam, Chef Boyardee, and Hormel Chili), but there are some things, like shepherd’s pie, that we expect to be homemade.  Is boxed organic shepherd’s pie more superior than Hamburger Helper?  Would a hipster from San Francisco enjoyably eat the boxed organic shepherd’s pie, but chuckle if I told him that I used frozen peas and carrots in my dinner last night?  Is organic shepherd’s pie in a box heartier and more filling than the tradition countryside recipe?  I guess I just don’t get it! 

Maybe my whole dilemma comes from the fact that I am a little disturbed with the word ‘organic’ being thrown around so easily.  Organic farmers take pride in their work and they follow very strict guidelines to put the word ‘organic’ on their product.  I find it a little hard to believe that an organic farmer would consciously be comfortable with the fact that his fresh produce was dried, processed, and boxed.  Would he really sacrifice his family’s life and attend countless USDA meetings for a spot on Trader Joe’s top shelf?  I highly doubt it.

2.  Girls in Bar Clothes.  Honestly, it is not 1999.  Be natural!  Your bar clothes look like a costume from Halloween USA.  And quit pushing your breasts up to your neck!  You look swollen!

3.  Bouncers Who Think They Are THE LAW.  Sit down and shut up!  You are here to make sure that no one gets hurt in case a fight breaks out.  Not to bully people around with your intimidating stare and crossed arms.  And quit making me feel like shit for standing.  There’s no room to move!

4.  Cover Charges.  Really, I have to pay to come into YOUR bar where I will spend money on drinks that YOU marked up 200%?  WTF?  Why?  Aren’t you making enough money on the drinks alone?  I know my cover charge isn’t going to ’pay for the band.’  There is no band!  And your DJ sucks! 

5.  The Smell.  That awful smell that lingers and follows you around until you finally take a shower.  All that smoke and alcohol.  Eeww!  Gross!   And the fact that your coat will smell like stale beer and cigarettes for the next week and a half just about blows.  Why did I bring it in?

It just sounds gross.  But when most of us get a few drinks down, we become a little less pure and a lot more unrefined.  Our mouth becomes our own personal weapon of mass destruction and our mind is held hostage of comprehension.  Verbal vomit spews out uncontrollably.  And phrases like, ‘I love you, man’ and ‘I not trying to be mean, but…,’ start to take a life of their own. 

And then there’s our appearance.  Sadly, we think we’re the cat’s meow.  For women, our make up is non-existent.  We are only left with smeared raccoon eyes and a distorted body image that we think we look like Jessica Biel.  For men, you’re a little sweaty (it’s a little gross) and your shirt is untucked with wrinkles at the bottom.  But dude, you are the captain of the football team!  You own this bar!  

Hey, we are all entitled to let loose after hours, speak gibberish, and look like a beat-up version of Raggedy Anne and Andy.  Right? 

The next day, we try to forget about the things we might have said and done.  Hazy vignettes run through our mind of the night before.  The dirty artist at bar smoking his Lucky Strikes (I think I might have kissed him).  The suburban MILF’s with their mom bellies (I think I freaked one of them on the dance floor).  The couple making out in the corner (Gosh, I wish that was me).  The couple making out in the restroom (Do they not know what STD’s are?).  And the hipster conversation about slogan tees that we tried so hard to ignore, but we couldn’t take it anymore and said some words that were inappropriate to say the least (STFU!).  And the shots.  Oh, the shots…they were going down so smooth… 

Alcohol helps ease the daily friction of life.  With good company, it is the Barry White of beverages.  It helps us bond with the ones we love and slowly get to second base with the ones we want to love.  Alcohol also can be the Sarah Palin of spiked punches.  It can spark a fire of excitement with rehearsed words or embarrass a party with its mindless rambling.  And lastly, alcohol is Rachel Ray of rum and cokes.  In 30 minutes or less, you can either stir up a good buzz and raspy voice or brew a pot of bullshit and annoy the hell out of everyone in the bar.