A market stand in London has turned hipster beards into twinkling upside-down Christmas trees.
The good people of East Village E20–who host the annual Christmas Maker’s Market in London–have decided to “improve” upon the already ridiculous beard-dazzling of Noels past (I’m looking at you beard bobbles and goatee glitter). The East Village has given British hipsters twinkling lights in their facial hair.
Imma stop you all for a second because I know many of you dear readers think that the British accents on these men cancel out their insufferable hipsterness.
Not so.
I’ll have you know that I lived in London for a spell, having gone across the ocean as an Anglophile with the assumption that all the men would speak in a cute, charming manner.
You know, like Hugh Grant.
Who I actually met? Hu–ge disappointment.
I’m not going to say they have the worst teeth in the world. It’s just that they eat mushy peas because they don’t possess the dental fortitude to masticate soft vegetables.
And clever? Well, if you think smug, drunken, incomprehensible parroting of jokes they stole from Graham Norton is clever? Sure. They’re “clever.”
But I digress. My point here isn’t to be hard on British men. Rather, I’m here to take the piss out of hipster men by offering an itemized list of the other things you might find hiding in a hipster’s beard once it’s lit up:
- A rusty beer tab from an old can of Pabst
- 1-7 empty bottles of kombucha
- A harmonica, because of course
- A Neutral Milk Hotel EP (vinyl)
- White privilege
- Condescending smirks
- Student loan debt from a bullshit liberal arts postgrad degree…something about medieval pyrotechnics
- A smaller, less ironic beard
- One dog-eared copy of Infinite Jest
- A ceremonial hatchet
- A family of flying squirrels
- Unemployment benefits
- Actual Hoobastank
- I’m not sure what Hoobastank is, but it probably smells like your vulnerable best friend’s bad decisions
- A unicycle
- Mansplaining
- A vague understanding of supply and demand because they read Freakonomics that one time
- A mediocre poem they wrote for McSweeney’s
England, when festive, flicker beards make their way stateside, I’m blaming you.
I mean, first Brexit, now this?
What are you thinking? A little moonshine and ironic square dancing and this trend becomes a fire hazard.
Not that I’m saying these asshats should set themselves on fire. Although if said facial combustion does occur, at least they’ll finally have a good reason to reference that sham medieval pyrotechnics degree like they try to do in every conversation.
No one cares, Hugh. Get a damn job. Also, you, Hoobastank. Take a shower.