In case you haven't already figured it out, this article is satire and meant for entertainment purposes only. So don't get your fucking panties into a bunch!
Dear Dad, As you know, I have been traveling a lot for work lately. Due to my transient lifestyle, I have found myself visiting a variety of local Hipsterbucks around the country because of their consistently available (and free) Wi-Fi. I’m not proud of how I have come so dangerously close to selling my manhood like a cheap whore in exchange for access to the Internet. Lincoln freed the slaves and Ghenghis conquered much of the known world without the Internet. Yet, here I stand, a slave to that very intangible thing that has become so necessary to my livelihood. It’s been a harrowing experience every day. But today, it was especially so. I walked in cautiously, making sure to stand up straight and make direct eye contact with all the beta-males strewn about the coffee shop like used condoms in a Thai brothel. My gaze made them uncomfortable; most quickly looked back down and stared into their mocha-chai-extra-vegan-latte as if such a weak drink would offer them answers as to why they have become so mentally weak and physically useless to those around them. The glare I delivered is a defense mechanism for me; I don’t want to risk them approaching. I don’t want to risk having to patiently listen to their useless drivel about how communism got a bad rap. I sure as hell don’t want to risk one of them effeminately touching me, leaving the permanent stain of a lesser… man? on me. I was patiently waiting in line as I saw the man-bun bob unceremoniously up and down on top of the beta-male behind the counter taking another customers order. I just want to get my coffee, I thought to myself. It’s the minimum payment I must offer to earn the password to this Hipsterbucks’ Wi-Fi network. The beta male barista kept running his fucking mouth though, talking to the customer who was wearing skinny jeans, a tattered t-shirt and a scarf about how a police officer came in earlier and violated his safe space by having an “assault pistol” on his belt. I could barely keep my composure, feeling a bead of sweat meander down my temple while I clenched my jaw and balled my fists. Dad, you always told me the mark of a real man is to keep your cool in even the direst of situations. I swore under my breath that I would not dishonor our family name, not in this establishment of societal leaches! I swore to myself that if I can just make it through this, I would immediately return home and clean my rifle, change the oil on my car, and impregnate my wife with what will surely be a barrel-chested son of impeccable physical strength and remarkable courage. The time finally came though. I stepped forward to deliver my order of one large coffee, black. The beta-barista, Cláude according to his nametag, must have come from French lineage. No doubt he was cursed with a lesser bloodline than our families proud Norwegian heritage that can be traced back to Erik the Red. I tried to give him the benefit of the doubt, thinking that maybe his ancestors were the same as the proud French-Normans who heroically assisted the Allies in World War II, but with every word, every movement of his weak jaw-line, he made it painfully apparent that he was a direct descendant of only the most cowardly, Nazi-sympathizing Parisians. It turned my stomach to know that he would be pouring my large coffee, black. Dad, forgive me. It was when he handed me my coffee that he lightly touched my wrist, and said, “Don’t worry friend, you may have a tough exterior but we all know you're a sweetheart on the inside!” Then, he winked at me. It was the final straw, the effeminate touch and the wink, the fucking accusation that I am weak on the inside! I beg you forgive me, I shamed our family name and I now write this to you from within the confining walls of the county jail. I write this to you as a man who sits shackled like an animal, because I could not control myself as you had taught me. Before his dainty, un-calloused fingers were able to depart from my wrist, I grabbed it and easily pulled his arm off… detaching it from its even weaker body. I did not mean to dismember him in this way, I am just so unaccustomed to such frail humans that I forgot to dial back the amount of violence of action that I dispatched in my moment of rage. I offer no excuses for what happened next though. I barely took notice of the fact I had just detached his entire arm from his body before I was already on top of him, beating him un-mercilessly with his own arm, and aggressively shouting at him about how big of a mistake it was to touch me, and that if you are going to sport a man-bun you better have a fucking samurai sword on your back to go with it. There was blood on my face, all over my favorite Freedom Flag t-shirt, and all over the girl sitting nearby with her librarian glasses and ‘I Love Kale’ shirt. The law enforcement officers had to pull me off of him, and I immediately felt bad for whoever was going to have to clean up the mess I left. I fully intended to clean it up myself, but the officers were insistent on me being put in the back of their cruiser immediately. Dad, forgive me. I let a hipster touch me, and I dishonored our family name by not keeping my composure. If you were able to keep your cool in the midst of a battalion of Viet Cong guerillas surrounding your position, completely out of ammunition and only your butt stock to finish the battle with… then surely I should have been able to do it while staring down a beta-male in a Hipsterbucks. Please let mother know that it won’t be long before I return home; I saw the State’s Prosecutor walking around with a Black Rifle Coffee Company mug in his hand… surely he will sympathize with my chosen course of action. Respectfully, Erik Mattis Patton III