[Originally published March 18, 2010.]

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#SXSW hath begunne. Felawshipe is wrot amongst many fyne hypster pilgrimes. The pathwayes overflowe with dangley baddges.

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As the evenning aproacheth, hypsters hath desended upon our towne, drinnking our wyne as unikornes feast upon rayes of the sonne.

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O that marche daye wan the sonne shone so bryte, vishones of glorye from hypsters’ mirrored sonneglasses stabbeth at myne fase.

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Crulle lokkes shoote fromme the eyes of thyne bartender. Typ welle, mashine minion. Else you shall earn a boote in youre arse.

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The prys paide by a lustye bacheler is this: hypster femayles groupe like flockes of paynted chikennes. Cocques are foresaken. #sadcocques

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Flocke of hypsters mightily roarred past my hoarse-carte, stampeedding olde menne offreing free memorees on stix.

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Hoarse-carte dryvers watcheth mappyng devises, forsayking welffayre of inosents. Dangere hydes betwixt all lyte polles.

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A nobil armye of gentil knyghts appeare to vommit in thyne alley. Alas, they forsayke cleen chin stubbel to partee forthwith. #boot&ralleye

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Wat ho, goatee’d man? Thy skinnee jenes hath byrn’d my corneyas.

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Fye the dregs who weareth blootooth sets upon theyr heds. Do you speeketh to me or to demones wither sleepe tween your eares?