The boy-child man-guy looked over the sandy crest of the dune hill and thought with his thinking parts, “I must only defeat Shy-Hulud–once I have ridden a great maker–,” he hesitated.
I’m not going to lie–I’m a total fucking hipster. When I paint sassy fish I listen to sad indie bands while wearing a knit hat that I found on the street, all the while drinking PBR and complaining about how sheepleish it is when people say sheeple. Big black glasses and skinny jeans? Absofuckinglutely.
But there is one person more hip than I. He’s so hip that he has a cult that’s probably made up entirely of indie bands that got their start in Manhattan. You’ve probably never heard of it, it’s pretty fhtagn underground.
How many great old ones does it take to screw in a light bulb? Oh, it’s a pretty unspeakable number, you’d probably go mad after hearing only the first horrible syllable.