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Take a look at this photo.
Is the person on the right a man or a woman? Neither. It’s a herb. Particularly, a subspecies of herb known as the hipster herb.
All the telltale indicators are here in one self-contained lump of flesh. The demasculinizing flip flops. The ungainly, loping walk that suggests the presence of a load in the pants. The baby soft skin from years of avoiding manual labor, sun and harsh soaps like Ivory. The slumped shoulders of meekness from carrying the ultimate calling card of the herb — the man satchel. I had to walk in front of them to verify the herb was male.
This herb is of the hipster variety. Notice the mop top hair, retro shirt sleeves, strangely androgynous countenance, and cute girl in his company. We can’t be sure the herb is banging this girl. Most likely, she’s a shopping and irony-laden cultural critic companion into whom the herb secretly yearns to dribble his tepid seed.
Why does the herb inspire my contempt? I’ve thought about this and I have an answer. The herb is nothing less than a physical emblem of the decline of America and a rejection of everything that made it great. As our SWPL women are getting more masculine and bitchier, our SWPL men are becoming human bean bags of suppleness. Sit on them and they’ll conform to whatever shape your ass is, because the herb most of all is a man who loathes the fiercer spirits of manhood. That’s why you’ll see them wearing frontal papooses and walking cats on leashes.
The hipster herb, the suburban family man herb, the art fag herb, the gender role smashing herb, the “I went to a formerly all-woman liberal arts college and I’m proud of it” herb — all 21st century versions of the new American Gollum. Pitiable creatures.
Oddly enough, a nontrivial number of herbs manage to score cute girlfriends. Scientists are baffled. Maybe they have an agreement — she gets to fuck around and he gets to continue treating her like a princess.