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Missive to a Coffee Shop Asshole

Dear Asshole,

We can all see what you are. Your unkempt hair, ratty backpack, and unwavering grasp upon your coffee cup. You don skinny jeans and a boys size-small t-shirt with, of course, a most obscure pattern and message upon it. The pale skin on your malnourished face is shrouded by patches of dirty blonde stubble. You are hunched and busy, typing away on an aged, rickety typewriter. We get it, man. You’re just so bohemian.

Such a severe attachment to the current MTV trend – this pseudo counter-culture bullshit – is sad enough. The elitism and forced nonchalance wears quickly and is really only well-executed in film and on page. You weren’t pulling it off any better than the other hip children, but I wasn’t going to hold that against you. My plan was simply to ignore you and move on with my life. But then you misbehaved.

In case you don’t recall, the event that transpired went as so:

Old Man: Excuse me. It’s nice to see an old typewriter in this day and age, but yours is particularly loud. The sound of each keystroke travels across the cafe and reaches even my table. My colleague and I are still able to carry on a conversation, but I wanted to warn you that others in the shop might complain.

You: Well, I can’t really type softer; typewriters don’t work well unless you press the keys firmly.

Old Man: I understand. Well, just keep in mind that it’s a bit loud and you’re in public.

You: Well, why don’t you get five more people to approach me about it and I’ll put it away.

Old Man: That isn’t my point, young man. I was just trying to….

You: (Interrupting him) Well, this is my job so I’m not going to stop on account of it bothering you. And I’m not going to have a Berkeley debate with you about it. I have to work so whatever.

(Old Man walks away with – and I’m guessing here – a mouth full of vomit, disappointed by your lack of class)

That guy was polite and you, with all the grace of a gang-rape, were a complete asshole. To you, the attention that you got from lugging around your toy (I counted no fewer than nine mentions of it by walkers-by in the 35 minutes that I was near you) was more important than the feelings of the old man who took the time to warn you that the other customers might be bothered by the ruckus you were making.

You are an obnoxious hipster. You differ only in fashion from the abrasive, conformist, popped-collar, frat-boys that plague the other end of the douchebag spectrum. And that is why I’m posting your picture for my eleven viewers to see.


Fuck You,

P.S. The year is 2008 and there are zero job-listings in existence that mention the requirement of a typewriter. I hate you.