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I love hipsters, I really do. I know I make fun of ’em a lot, saying they’re too cool for school, that they’re way too predictable, and that they’re really just grown-up mama’s boys.

But I guess when faced with a choice of being surrounded by gang-bangers, metal-heads, Euro-trash, golddiggers, or hipsters, I’d much rather hang out with mod haircut-havin’, iron-on t-shirt-wearin’, art-lovin’ hipsters than the members of any other social group. Based on the way our bodies are shaped, and the ways in which we think, speak, and listen, we all belong to one social group or another, and we all wear a uniform. The baller’s is tall shirts and baggy pants. The metal-head’s is long hair and muscles. The golddigger’s is silicon and brand name labels. The hipster’s: His is cigarette-slim jeans and pretty much anything else he can scrounge from his parents’ attic. DIY to the core, dude!

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