On The Edge With Jimmy Frizzell

God Bless The Hipsters, Each And Every One

Article By: Jimmy Frizzell

Originally Published In The November 2016 Issue Of Cycle Source Magazine

The fury of the ever changing dynamic in a culture so self absorbed in relevance has suddenly forced me to succumb to it’s wicked game. Every shit bird with a tight fitting neck and a pasty complexion is donning a freshly manicured beard and ironic fashion sense. Any work boots that costs over two hundred dollars these days aren’t even waterproof, or meant to be worked in for that matter and I can’t buy a f#@king pair of jeans without worrying about a proper waste line that contradicts how it hangs off of my boot. As I sit hear in my local coffee shop sipping on a rare brew steeped from the beans shit out of an endangered rodent’s ass I fear that my relevance is being overshadowed by the carbon footprint my former self already left behind. The rhythmic patter of the keys of my 1920 Remington Typewriter No. 12 quickly entrances the untapped workings of my inner writer while the rhythmic falsetto of prewar rainforest tribal banshee cries I bought off Amazon shows society that I am worldly yet modest.

I am a changed man here before you and I have to whole heartedly thank the self help records I purchased through a used book boutique in the village. Last week I was able to research the periodicals at the book suppository and hone in on a method to all this madness. A bunch of my motorcycle riding brethren and myself spent the weekend doing some of that hardcore biker shit that the millennials are doing these days and in typical next level style my Royal Enfield now runs on pure Vegan french fry grease… suck it Moby. It’s on Pinterest, if you want I’ll tag you in it. I dress up in a three-piece suit just to buy soy milk now, but on Sundays I only wear a robe made by scientologists because even though I don’t agree with their odd money laundering way of life the premise of the entire religion is the same as the Jedi’s and I’m totally down with the Star Wars…. I’m the new man that every mother wants their daughter to become. I have a solid core group of online friends and the translucent sheen of my skin only ensures the fact that I’ll never get skin cancer but my high ranking in Call of Duty says I’ll have carpal tunnel by the time I turn 23. When shit breaks I just buy a new one and I know I’m smart because the size of my coffee is in a completely different language.

I’ve never left New Jersey but I have Netflix and chics dig worldly guys so I might just die alone, unless my mother outlives me. I now collect Horn rimmed glasses with real glass lenses. I realize that they aren’t the safest for riding but most of the guys in my moped club have them and none of them have had a problem. Without risk there can be no reward someone iconic said that shit, and it’s basically how I roll, when it’s safe enough. I don’t eat meat and I only eat vegetables that die of natural causes, I believe soy is the new super food but I have to take scientists word for it because I can’t eat gluten…or peanuts. I eat healthy and work out, after two years of a healthy regiment at my local unisex gym I can dead lift 49.6 pounds. I refuse to lift anything more due to OSHA standards but my vintage wingtip shoes have a non slip sole and steel toe and I never wear sneakers. I may possibly be the death of the American workforce but I’m a safety standards wet dream. Even though I could never ever possibly get the job done at least you won’t get sued and that’s all the lawyers really care about. I saw an old lady fall in the street the other day. Her groceries tore out of the bottom of some recycled paper bags because of the heavy downpour we had been receiving all day. Her stocking was torn and the heel of her shoe was wedged in a storm grate. She was nursing a small gash on her forehead as the rain quickly began to relax the curls in her hair. Her sense of pride kept her from crying but the uncontrollable pain she felt caused her eyes to well up and tears joined the raindrops of her face. She was about 82 or 83 and appeared completely helpless and alone. Unfortunately, the lighting was totally wrong for a selfie so there was absolutely no reason for me help her, besides that’s why we have cops. I know longer feel the need to get my hands dirty. I won’t even attempt to take risks or experience adventure unless it will increase my social network standing

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