REDNECK PERSPECTIVE: Hillbilly Hip

By on September 29, 2015

Living life as a Hog Island hipster

150930RedneckJackson Hole, Wyoming – I was getting bored with Lil, Susie and Alice. Blythe was out of town. The off-season’s meager selection of Utah girls was also uninspiring so I headed to the bagel shop hoping for a bohemian coffeehouse girl. Bohemian girls can provide a variety of pleasurable options if one can pass off as being a hipster.

In an attempt to look hip, I ordered a latté and bagel. After trying to gnaw through the dry seven-grain bagel I began to wonder if a bohemian coffeehouse girl was worth the effort. In fact, I am considering starting an Old Bill’s qualified nonprofit to raise money to buy the bagel shop a fat fryer.

After sipping my latté (a combo of milk and bubbles), I boldly approached a girl whose tattoos and nose ring suggested moral depravity. Moral depravity is my favorite female characteristic.

“I had the best wine and hamachi sashimi at Nikai last night,” I said in the superior tone of a hip, sophisticated foodie, someone who would actually choose to eat raw fish while guzzling rotted grape juice. “Nikai flies in fresh ice packed sustainably harvested tuna,” I continued, offering a look of disdain for those who would dare consume tuna killed in an unsustainable manner.

Despite my concern for sustainability and my professed love of fresh, flown-in fish, the woman looked at me with disinterest. “Get lost,” she said. “You may think you’re hip, but any idiot can tell you’re from Hog Island.”

I was devastated and related my tale of woe at the weekly poker game. Bill Fix, the renowned Jackson attorney known for winning big awards if not big poker pots, was indignant.

“Being from Hog Island, you are biologically, anatomically and socially unhip,” he explained. “But just because you’ve lived your life as a redneck, if you are more comfortable living as a hipster, and if you identify as a hipster, then others are legally required to treat you as a hipster. It would therefore be prejudicial to refuse a tryst merely on the basis of hipness.”

I got Bill to represent me for the money I took from him when he drew to an inside straight, hit the straight and then lost to my flush.

I returned to the bagel shop. The morally depraved bohemian girl was at a table with several other bohemian chicks. I presented her with a court order.

“What is this?” she demanded.

“A writ of habeas coupling,” I replied.

“Your friend has been treating me in a way that doesn’t respect how I identify myself,” I told those sitting at the table with her. “She has shown a lack of tolerance.”

“You were being intolerant?” one of her friends asked.

Being intolerant is one of the worst things a bohemian can be.

“I’m sorry,” she said, her eyes filling with tears of shame. “I didn’t know you identity as hip. I’ll make it up to you tonight.”

“Me too,” the others cried in unison.

Eating a dry, seven-grain bagel turned out to be a small price to pay. PJH

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