The Hipster Hand Job.
So, the next day I drove up to the next major city closest to me to drive for the night. Bigger city, more people, more events, more business, more rides, more money for this guy. I’ve probably completed 10-15 rides since last night’s fiasco without incident or anything really worth noting besides getting called a fag because someone didn’t like my shoes like it has any effect on the world whatsoever. I then receive a request from a small, trendy bar outside of downtown. It’s the kind of place frequented by sorority girls and the walking Izod ads that are trying to get into their skirts. It’s the kind of place that I would get hives and an assault charge if I went into. Seriously starting to itch just thinking about it. Everything I hated in high school is rushing back.
There’s basically zero parking around here and I go through this shit every time this address pops up. So I’ve circled the block a time or two trying to see anyone flagging me down or looking confused and pointing at me as if to say “is that a (insert name of a reasonably priced import here)? He doesn’t look like his picture.” (I’m smiling in my picture, I’m pissed off right now.) I stop momentarily for a stop sign when my back doors begin to open and a young couple asks me if I’m (insert my real name here). I confirm that I am indeed me, which needs to happen every now and then because I do tend to forget. As they take their seats, I look in my rear view and see the quality of people I’m dealing with. Dark flannel shirts covering classic rock t-shirts, beanies, horribly shaped facial hair, classless piercings, unkempt man-bun and 50’s style glasses…fucking hipsters. Fucking God damn hipsters.
They sit quietly in the back, little interaction with me. And I’m okay with that, mainly because they’re fucking hipsters and they probably just want to tell me how they liked everything I like before it was cool. But a quiet, uneventful night sounds good to me. But, then it started. I notice odd movements between the two of them in the mirror and my curiosity begins to pique. The woman is giggling and keeps shaking her head “no” and I can see the guy pointing towards his general crotch area. I’ve never fooled around in this car, no one else gets to either! Then the guy decides that it’s time to include me in the conversation. “Hey, man, have you, uh..” he keeps giggling through his words, unable to form coherent thought, he probably dodged a coat hangar in utero. “Have you ever hooked up in here.” You’re not fucking doing it in my car you zero personality piece of shit.
“Nope, can’t say I have.”
“Do you get girls taking their clothes off in here?”
“Not usually, no.”
I then proceeded to tell them a story about a ride who mooned me once on accident and the events leading up to that. The response I got should have sent up a red flag in my conscious mind, but I was too busy thinking about how this guy’s giggle is making me want to throat-punch him. He asked me if the mooning incident was recent, and I responded in the negative because it happened about three months prior to this night. But, it seems the hipster was too good to continue his conversation with me as he went back to nudging his girlfriend, who I’m pretty sure is deaf or mute because she has not made a noise the entire trip and she would have to be deaf to put up with this guys voice for long enough to carry on a relationship. Man-bun proceeds to continue pointing towards his crotch (or so it appears at the time) and his girl scoots closer to him. This is not fucking happening. If I hear a zipper, I’m slamming on brakes and smashing your fucking goatee into the headrest and tell you a dog ran out in front of me. Hipsters wouldn’t dare hurt a puppy.
Luckily for me, the ride was short and ended before everyone started to rock out with their cock out. I drop them off at some trendy apartment building filled with old cat ladies and college students and they do their final odd procedure of the night. I pulled up with the apartment complex on the left, but they both got out the right side of the vehicle. To make things worse, the self-righteous, entitled little brats left my fucking door open! What the fuck has society come to? I get out and walk around the vehicle and as the door clicks closed, the guy turns around and asks: “Oh, did I leave that open?”
“Yeah, you dumb twat.”
“What was that?”
“I said ‘Yeah, I got it.’”
“I hope you die.”
“I said ‘Have a nice night.’”
What a waste of good air. And I’m glad I mumble a lot and have an accent because if I would’ve offended him and then he got all uppity I would’ve had to make him cry, if for no other reason than principle. It would have been interesting to see which would have hurt him more; the physical beating I would mercilessly inflict upon the frail result of having a sheltering over-protective mother, a vegan diet, and never doing a push-up in his entire life he calls a body; or the emotional pain of making him watch me fuck his girlfriend after the epic ass beating was concluded?