I’m Pretty Sure This Craigslist Ad For A New Bike Just Boom Roasted Me And Every Single Chicago Stoolie

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Oh yeah.

You’re a Lincoln Park/Lakeview bro.

Your abs are courtesy of crossfit and your dimpled smile is courtesy of God’s good grace. You pull wool at Sheffield Garden Walk, Epic, State, Castaways, and the bleachers like a motherfucking sheep herder. Shit, last month alone you notched each school in the Big 10 (except Northwestern, of course) and three chicks from Miami (Ohio, of course). The posse calls you ‘The Machine’. You drive a Range Rover that may or may not be paid for by your dad/trust fund. You’re the fucking man.

Right?

Then why are you so. . .. lost? Empty? And dare I say. . . unhappy?

Because inside that chiseled cover boy of privilege exterior, you’re a fucking hipster.

There. It’s out there. You’re a hipster.

Instead of chasing tail at McGee’s on Thursday night, you’d rather be at Handlebar with two thin mustached gentlemen who eschew deodorant and a chunky with a bull ring discussing who sold out after Pitchfork in 2009 or what cassette you just picked up at Bric a Brac Records or the goddamn line at Danny’s on Saturday, all while squeezed into a pair of skinny jeans so tight your balls are at DEFCON 5.

Yeah.

That’s right. I know.

It’s that fucking transparent, bro.

Relax. Your secret is safe with me. Word is bond. Life is what life is. I mean, it’s not like you’re going to get an outpouring of support for coming out like Jason Collins. Right? I get it.

So, after all that overwritten preamble, here’s the deal: I have something that’s going to save your hipster soul.

Yes.

Something that will allow you to free your inner hipster right smack dab in the middle of North Avenue Beach, and none of the those honies who work as assistant account coordinators at Ketchum on Kleenex will ever suspect a thing.

How?

Meet Orange Crush -

- a single speed masterpiece of orange, matte black, and tasteful touches of chrome.

A customized XL kit bike from NYCB with bull bars, it’s completely unbranded save for its accoutrements (tires, rims, carbon fiber fork, seat, and the like).

It’s the only fixie in the city that scores major hipster cred yet STILL will look great hanging on the exposed brick wall of your River North loft.

Take it to six corners , and you’ll get “nice bike” from every tattooed lad and lass wearing a ridiculous Danny Ferry Atlanta Hawks jersey and painter’s cap combo you see. And each and every Lululemon cashier chick you score at Paris Club will say the same thing as you escort her through to your pad to where the “magic happens”.

For reals.

So, let’s make a deal. You need to let your inner hipster loose a little before you go postal, and I gotta pay my fucking nanny.

250 bucks. Boom. Done. See you in the PlayPen.

P.S.: Shorties and Napoleonic Complexes need not apply – this bike is an XL frame. Come long and strong, or don’t come at all. Ain’t got the time to watch any of you custom-hemmed jeans types try to touch the pedals.

 

 

Ummm, I think I’m offended by this?  Yeah my abs are by crossfit, and yeah I drive around in a Range Rover  (used to own a 2000 Avalon, XL), and yes my mustache does make me look like a hipster but come on, that bike sucks. 1 speed? Do you even cycle bro?

 

Ah fuck it, who am I kidding. I want this bike. I want to moonlight as a hipster in Wicker Park/Bucktown just to see how the other half live.  I want to occasionally drink lattes and listen to bluegrass (like maybe once a year tops). Facts are facts, this guy knows me better than I know me and I know myself REALLY well*

 

 

*I masturbate a lot.

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