Anatomy of the Hipster

A dissection of members of the hipster subculture... literally.

Sax Carrby Sax Carr

While reorganizing my apartment over the last few weeks, I discovered I had some space that was now going unused. Knowing that Hipster Week was coming up on Crave, I decided to use the space to fulfill a personal dream of mine: Perform the first ever autopsy of a Hipster. Oh, dear, I bet you thought Anatomy of a Hipster in the metaphorical sense. No, I was being quite literal. Today we will discuss hipster insides.

I raided my kitchen for knives and other tools, dug out my copy of Grey's Anatomy (not he crappy medical drama, the brilliant medical manual), grabbed my tranquilizer gun and went hipster hunting. After accomplishing the first autopsy, I decided to check my results with another few dozen. The pile of bodies accruing in the living room is starting to bother guests. Writing this article is the final step before I can get them out of the house, and at this point my social life is suffering, so let's get on with it, shall we?

 Hey Zack, thanks for the coffeeeeaaaAAAAAAAAAAAAAA SO MANY BODIES!!!

The first thing I noticed that was consistent in all subjects was great amounts of a hormone called irodine. Last seen in this quantity only in Alanis Morrisette, irodine suppresses the receptors in your brain that allow you to understand the definition of irony. You see, irony is a subtle art, and irodine prevents the interpretation of subtle things. It also effects the subjects comprehension of sarcasm, innuendo and humor. This is why hipsters often tell jokes they clearly don't get, or say they like something ironically, or poorly perpetuate the 'that's what she said' joke. Because humor to a hipster is like red to a colorblind bull. When you can't see it, you assume it's everywhere.

Also, for obtuse pun of the day: They both charge everything with a visa!

But that was just the blood test. The fun really starts when you open 'em up. I started with the face, because, let's be honest, we all kinda hate their stupid faces. Upon removing the eyes, I noticed an additional node on the optic nerve. I'd never seen anything like it before, but I found a newsletter from the scientific community in Montpellier, France, who had studied the phenomenon decades before me. Apparently, most French people have it too. Roughly translated, it's called the Optical Distortion Node. It prevents hipsters, and the French, from being able to see the difference between cool and obnoxious. Also, many subjects presented with an odd side effect: poor eyesight that could only be cured with non-prescription glasses.

In particularly serious cases, the cure is worse than the disease.

Proceeding to the abdomen, I found that despite many similarities, the vital organs of the hipster depart actively from normal human physiology. They have significantly shorter intestines, leaving quite a bit of space in the absence of any guts. Their livers are similar, but they all had the PBR logo on them. However, the kidneys really threw me for a loop. In addition to helping the subject pee properly, hipster kidneys also take all the crap they filtered out and send it back into the hipsters blood. Toxins run through their bloodstream, souring them to all things and generally making them full of shit.

Moving further up, into their hollow, rotten chest cavities, I found a real shocker. In between the lungs, right in the middle, was a dying flame. After numerous tests, I discovered that it was not a biotech flamethrower. Actually, when the hipster breathes in, the flame grows and superheats the contents of his lungs. The hipster, now filled to the brim with hot air, can spew it out upon the rest of us like a kitten in front of a blowdryer.

Yeah, I know. But that other picture would have been so cute, right?

Finally, upon breaking the brittle and thorny ribcage, you find yourself face to face with the core of a hipster. Their oily black heart, which is rumored to pump only hate. I had it checked, and it turns out it pumps a lot of blood too, but it's still, like, thirty percent hate. It is this dark vessel that fuels a hipster's every twisted move. With each slow, agonizing beat, they do something unforgivable.

However, this organ is only a pulsating hate crime against humanity if it's actually inside a hipster. The sludge they contain can actually power most gas-powered vehicles for over a year, and when you're done, they make an absolutely lovely centerpiece for your dining room table. Friends would come over and they would say "Ooooh, what's that fine piece there?", and you would just hold your head high and smile. "Why that? That's just the heart of a hipster. Killed it myself." and they would 'oooh' and 'aaah' and you would be a hero in their eyes.  Forever.