November 08, 2007

Suburban Street Toughs

Like many of our fellow citizens, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” are largely products of the American suburbs. You know the suburbs, dear reader: Those milquetoast communities home to the local branch of Restoration Hardware, Barnes & Noble, and all the white people as far as the eye can see.

To be honest, when we think about the suburbs (which we do as little as possible), a frightening array of images pop into our minds: Soccer moms; Dukakis voters; NPR; Baby Gap; &c. You know: The typical ennui-inspiring soullessness you have come to expect from a town called Danvers.

We would be remiss, however, if we failed to mention one particular aspect of the suburban life (!) that never fails to vex us. As you can tell from the title of today’s animadversion, we’re talking about the odious young ones we have taken to calling suburban street toughs.

Now, don’t get us wrong: Street toughs are—on their own—pretty bad. No one likes to walk into these shady customers during the dark hours.

But suburban street toughs are even more irksome than their urban compatriots, in large part because they aren’t nearly as frightening as they are pathetic. At least in the big city the ne’er-do-wells know how to car jack you, for crying out loud.

And what do suburban street toughs do? Well, as far as we can intuit, they spend lots of time on outdated BMX bicycles hanging outside the local Dunkin’ Doughnuts or strip mall. With their ‘do rags and baggy vestments, they attempt to put forth an unsavory demeanor, but they wind up looking like a bunch of guys named Nigel in desperate need of a tailor.

We mean, come on: Can you really come across as menacing when you’re within a few feet of a Starbucks? Nothing rankles as much as ersatz toughness.

In fact, we’d love to force these extra-urban goofs into a big van, and then leave them off in the big city. We don’t think their whole I’m-Foreboding-Outside-of-Borders-Books routine will impress too many folks in the red light district of your local city.

A couple of hours mixing it up with pimps, drug dealers, and toothless derelicts should cure lil’ Johnny and Hunter of their perverse need to terrorize their upper-middle class brethren.

Posted at November 8, 2007 12:01 AM | TrackBack