Vanilla is a product of Lussumo:Documentation and Support.
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I live in LA-- the ironic-fashion-sense capital of the world. There are parts of town where you can't even go if the expression on your t-shirt is not polar opposites with the way you actually feel and think. So when I was in Florida this Christmas, and my grandfather offered up this baseball cap, I snatched it with greedy delight.My brother and step-sister scoffed with confused disgust. Why would I want such a hideous hat? And why, now that I had it, should they give me a ride back from Delray Beach?Because I am not a Hipster.But I am the greatest one of them all.Hipsters would see me on their excursions to the Sherman Oaks Galleria and hang their heads. For they'd pine, "Were he a Los Feliz-dwelling, horned-rimmed glasses wearing, tight-t-shirt besporting member of our kind, why, we'd bow down before him and follow his every intimation and declaration. We'd hoist him on our shoulders and cheer as he opened the old alpha-male's jugular with his jaws and be, thus anointed in his green-tinged hipster blood, our new leader.""Our women would swoon and our men would nod our respect and tip our trucker-caps to him. In the old west, we would have named him the Sheriff of Silverlake."But sorry, everyone. I am no Hipster. I will not be the one to lead you to take your place on the national arena. You will set no agenda, lead no debate.You must find another messiah.For I just came storming into your house, Hipsters. I just slam-dunked over you and tongue-kissed your mom. Feel violated? You should. Because you will never have a more hideous hat than this.PS-- Does it burn you up inside that I actually like knishes? That's right. I'm not even wearing this hat ironically.What a waste...
Luke Skywalker was just about to take a tumble into Jabba the Hutt’s Rancor pit when Theo got kicked in the balls.“DORK!” Tommy Livingston screamed as his foot made contact with Theo’s groin. Tears welled in Theo’s eyes and he dropped to his knees, his hands immediately traveling downward to his crotch. He bent his head and fell onto his side.Tommy was the top dog in fourth grade—not necessarily the most popular kid, and certainly nowhere near the smartest, but definitely the most feared. The lame, the dorky and the weak cowered in his presence—the mere whispered mention of his name was enough to send Danny Mandernach, the sickly albino kid whose mom walked him to school, into bawling hysterics. Decades later, all who were tortured by Tommy Livingston would be advised by their therapists that his bullying tactics were little more than an unfortunate response to his premature physical development—in other words, Tommy was shopping in the big boys’ section at J.C. Penney well before his contemporaries had left their Osh Kosh outfits behind. And running into him working the counter at the local Wendy’s was some consolation once theyhad overcome the psychic scars brought on by his reign of terror.But in 1984, the kid was just plain scary. Theo felt the full brunt of his fearful power as Tommy stood over his agonized form, grinning his half-toothless grin. Behind him, an ogling crew of his top cronies in the playground Gestapo snickered like cartoon vultures. One of them had planted his boot on top of Theo’s copyof the Return of the Jedi novelization.