My never-there hipster father once told me two things before he left the family to marry a prostitute:
The first piece of advice was: “Kid, never hit a lady” — a mantra he didn’t necessarily follow, and the second piece was one he whispered to me softly, while holding his junk on the lawn, dry-heaving: “Mind the jewels boy,” he gingerly said, “mind the jewels.”
Zebra Katz – Hipster
Though I can’t speak for your own personal experiences, during the last decade or so of my life, I’ve noticed a lot of relevant people my age (Read: Hot Hipster Chicks) have really gotten into watching online PETA videos, and hating me for eating delicious steak.
So I’ve tried to be a little more environmental about it, buying the best organic, mom & pop, free-range delicacies; but that didn’t seem to work. In the end I’m still a gorgeous predator, lurking in my sweet animal-eating suit, enjoying the tastiest mutilated KFC chicken beaks.
See, by eating meat, I’ve opted to become similar to someone who wears furs, a furry if you will, and furries are fucking creepy people meant to be petted and loved only by other fucking creepy people. To these chicks, I was still just some bro dressed like a fucking lemur, creeping up bamboo trees and shit, and asking for numbers while chewing on jerky.
I changed-up my game: Hot hipster chicks like tight jeans-wearing, unshaved hipster bro’s right?
Fast forward from that point and you would’ve seen that I grew the most luxurious stubble and wore the most ball-hugging pants ever. My voice became a little more high-pitched, and I started enjoying Pabst Blue Ribbon (the taste of victory), while being passive-aggressive with my whining (Read: “being ironic”).
But something was bothering me, especially when I sat or pulled up my pants, or tried to do the splits like a fancy gentleman. My father’s very-limited words would crop up, his face floating around my zipper, his mouth whispering “mind the jewels.”
So today I want to talk to you about Hipster balls.
If it weren’t for a cold shower and some basketball shorts, I wouldn’t be here to tell you this story, I’d be living it. What the hell was I doing to myself? Donating my balls’ ability to churn out champion-grade skeet in exchange for more peaceful, whinier ventures?
Sure, tight jeans can make your nuts feel “safe and secure” and “in the right place”, but safety is an illusion that makes you hate things you’re not used to, and it’s the same thing that motivates old people to rant on talk radio and shit or fire you for smoking “the reefer” (Read: Making ironic comments about someone’s new shoes). I’m not looking for security.
Naw, I’m a G.
I had to face it, doing the Hipster bro lifestyle was making me into a fucking Beta-Male, not some rebel without a real thing to complain about.
My nuts were in a vice called skinny jeans, and like the cold, small hands of non-compromising relationships, they were being cupped hard, forcing me to follow trends like a dog on a leash.
We’ve come to the era of lesser extremes, but some “regular trends” are still way out there, like mole infatuations and armpit sniffing strangers you take home; and I’m sure as time goes on, though Hipster bro’s can “do it better” by keeping to a certain dietary choice, their leashed selves will just cause another extreme trend to be born in a never-ending cycle that makes this become the look of “hot” guys according to relevant chicks.
Aren’t your hipster balls angry? Does eating quinoa with tempe and getting adorably militant tang really soothe that ache in your gut?
The source of the problem can be seen and felt and readjusted. Those poor nuts, forced to stay in one place by tightly-wound denim, never allowed to see the light of day or feel the wind’s caress. IF only they were uncaged, if only a few brave souls would unleash them out into the world — in a legal sense — THEN things could change.
Mind the jewels.