Hate

I Hate Hippies

Pardon the profanity, but don't mistake the pure hatred for anything less than it is: 100 percent All-Natural.

Hippies. In my opinion, these are the single most skanky, disgusting and filthy bastards ever to set foot or Birkenstock upon this world.

There are many reasons for my hatred of hippies; as a matter of fact, I can't think of a single good thing to say about them. Hippies in no way, shape or form contribute to society. They are simply ragged and disheveled beasts that make hemp bracelets and roll around in the mud all day long. They are modern day plague rats, squalid carriers of pestilence and disease.

They have no shame, nor any inhibitions. They are the bastard children of idiocy and laziness, and they smell like rotting garbage. How in the name of all that is holy could someone find that lifestyle even remotely appealing? It is impossible for me to understand, and I don't think I ever will. There are just so many things about these people that make my stomach do handsprings, I think I'll dwell on them for the duration of this article.

Filthiness
These people do not know what hygiene is. Some of them even have these fat roly-poly dreadlocks that are home to entire civilizations of vermin and other unspeakable horrors that boggle the mind. Hippies must think that if soap and water touch them, they'll melt like the Wicked Witch. If anyone will bring back the black plague, it's going to be them. I am tempted to give the Center for Disease Control in Atlanta a call and bring this great public health risk to their attention.

I simply do not understand what is so difficult about washing oneself. Why don't they wash? Do they think they're rebelling against society? They aren't! They just smell like ass. That is not rebellion, that's just the utmost in laziness and stupidity. They aren't merely unwashed and unshaved, they are covered in filth! I can understand wanting to get back to nature, but Jesus, man, it doesn't mean you have to roll around in the mud like a pig.

How can it be "rebellious" when there are tens of thousands of other filthy bastards just like you? In today's society, the only way to truly rebel is to take off all your clothes, run off to the mountains and howl at the moon for the rest of your life. Whenever one of these hippie-things comes within ten feet of me, I begin to lose consciousness.

Another thing, if you smell like a dead skunk, the solution is not to apply an oil that smells twice as bad as you do. What the hell is this patchouli oil, anyway? It smells so bad... well, it smells so bad I can't come up with anything witty to describe it. I think I know where it comes from, though. The people who make that stuff are probably filthy hippie bastards themselves, right?

My theory is that they kidnap the filthiest hippies they can find and throw them in a hot bath for a few hours. The water then becomes pure, unadulterated filth. This filthy substance is then concentrated (by the powers of Jah) into an oil, and it becomes patchouli oil.

Then it is sold to Yves Saint Laurent, who wholesale it to small hippie distribution companies in large vats. These hippies bottle it, and sell it to hippie stores worldwide. The whole reasoning behind this shit reminds me of pre-nineteenth century Europe. Those people would refrain from bathing for years, and then pack on perfume by the gallon.

Hippie Pastimes
Hippies have a lot of time on their hands, so they have to do something to pass it by. The results in the single-most-stupid-invention in the history of mankind: the hacky sack. Ladies and gentlemen, this is the game of the Devil. How the hell did this thing get invented? Who makes these friggin' things anyhow? Really bored hippies, I guess.

If you're at the UO, you've seen hacky sack circles before. Hippies can kick this stupid little bean bag around for hours, and they do it with the intensity of a World Series pitcher in game seven. When the hippies play hacky sack on the front step of my dorm, it can go on till the sun goes down and beyond. I can go inside, take a nap, watch "Ben-Hur," read the Canterbury Tales, then go back outside, where lo and behold, they're still kicking the damn thing around.

They always do it in a main thoroughfare, too, right in the middle of traffic. When passing by, chances are you will be struck with one of those pointless miniature bean bags; after which the comment "Oh, dude, I passed it to you," generally follows, swift on the heels of the offending sack.

Another thing that irks me are those goddamn drums. Now don't get me wrong, I'm sure that if people actually know how to play bongo drums, it sounds good, but I have lived in Eugene for 15 years, and I have yet to hear a competent figure in creating a feasible beat on one of those evil drums.

I know you've seen one of these drum circles, maybe at Saturday Market, or at one of the many festivals that cater to all the bums--ahem, hippies we have living in the University area. About six or more hippies sit in one of those damn circles they're always in, whacking and beating away on the drums. All of them thrash out a different beat. White people can't hook up a decent beat anyway, let alone a gaggle of hippies. This is also reflected in the music they listen to.

Have you ever heard the Grateful Dead and/or Phish? It is quite possibly the most unbearable noise ever created this side of John Tesh. It sounds like a bunch of over-fried, half-dead hippies plunking away on whatever random instrument they found backstage. Oh, whoops, I guess that's exactly what it is.

Hippie Things
For people who are theoretically so full of "love" and "peace," hippies are cruel bastards. Not only are they insanely cruel to dogs, but they are also horrible parents who dement their children's minds.

Have you ever seen a hippie dog? I'm sure you have. They are part and parcel of the hippie infestation we have in Eugene. These are poor, unfortunate stray dogs that some hippie came across one day and tied a raggedy piece of string around its neck. These are mangy, filthy animals, much like their owners. They live miserable lives, as they are not fed on good dog food, but tofu and granola, the hippie staples. These dogs live horrible lives, which pretty much consist of beinga flea circus and providing endless hours of joy for their hippie owners. They love to blow smoke in the dogs' faces.

What on earth makes them think a dog would want to be stoned? Sick bastards. The same goes for hippie children, which are about the same as hippie dogs. These little monsters were breast-fed until they were five years old! They are not only diseased and dirty, but unruly. They are the direct cousins of hippie dogs. If you're lucky, you can see them being led along by a piece of string sometimes too. These children are always running around buck-ass nekkid. It just frightens me to know that these people breed.

And what about Drum and American Spirits? These things are barely cigarettes, but hippies will consume (not necessarily buy) anything that says All-Natural on it. They taste like cardboard. Cigarettes taste like crap if they don't have good old-fashioned additives and chemicals to enhance the taste. What the hippies don't seem to understand is that these cigarettes have just as much shit in them, they just taste worse. Anything that's natural tastes like horse shit.

Hippies are quite simply the scourge of my existence, and I hate them. I hate them because they are completely unproductive members of society. I hate them because they smell like month-old sock drawers. I hate them because they live in decadence, with no ambition or responsibility whatsoever. Someone needs to stop these people. They spread like wildfire. They are a sick contagion. They prey on the ignorant and vulnerable, appeal to their stupid and idealistic sides and turn them into hippies-in-training. They promise lives where you can mooch till you die, and always stay high.

I hate you hippie bastards. You are quite simply the scum of the earth. I hope all of you eat poisoned soybeans and die.

Chris Aster, a freshman majoring in Political Science, is a staff writer for the Oregon Commentator. Don't take it personally.