Scene: The therapist's office. Frank Costanza sits in an oversized leather chair that looks like it’s seen better days. The woke hipster lounges on the couch, clutching a mason jar filled with what might be kombucha. Frank glares, already annoyed.
Frank: Alright, kid. Let’s get down to brass tacks. What’s your problem? And make it quick—I got a coupon for half-off pastrami that expires in an hour.
Woke Hipster: (sighing dramatically) It’s, like... everything, you know? The crushing weight of capitalist realism, the commodification of my identity, the erosion of authentic community—
Frank: (interrupts) Hold it right there! What are you, writing a book report? Talk like a human being, not some abstract painting!
Woke Hipster: (earnestly) No, no, I’m serious! It’s like... every time I post a meme about dismantling systemic oppression, I feel like I’m part of the problem. Like, the meme itself is a product of the system, man!
Frank: (stares blankly, then explodes) A meme?! You’re having an existential crisis over a picture of a frog with text on it?! Kid, I once spent three weeks eating nothing but cabbage soup because my old man gambled away the grocery money! I didn’t sit around wondering if the soup was reinforcing class hierarchies—I ate it and moved on!
Woke Hipster: (nodding solemnly) But that’s the thing, Mr. Costanza. It’s all connected. Like, the soup is part of the patriarchal food system, which privileges certain vegetables over others—
Frank: (cutting him off, flabbergasted) Privileges vegetables?! What are you talking about?! You think the broccoli is sitting there laughing at the spinach because it’s got more fibre?!
Woke Hipster: (leaning forward, eyes wide) Exactly! It’s the invisible power structures, man. Like, think about carrots—they’re phallic. And society’s obsession with them is just another way we enforce toxic masculinity in our diets.
Frank: (throwing up his hands) Carrots are toxic masculinity?! Let me tell you something, pal: when I was a kid, the only thing toxic about food was that it sometimes came with actual toxins! And we still ate it! We didn’t sit around analysing the zucchini for its gender politics!
Woke Hipster: (earnestly) But don’t you think we need to unpack this stuff? Like, everything reinforces something. Even sitting here—this couch? Totally ableist. Not everyone can sit, Mr. Costanza! Have you ever thought about how much privilege it takes to just... sit?!
Frank: (leans forward, pointing) You know what, you’re right. Sitting’s a privilege—especially when you’re sitting on a couch that I paid for with money I earned by busting my hump! You think sitting is a metaphor? Sitting is what you do when your feet hurt because you’ve been standing all day trying to make enough money for rent!
Woke Hipster: (waving his kombucha jar for emphasis) But that’s the grind culture they want us to buy into! The landlords, the corporations, the... the... (he flails dramatically, searching for a word) the cultural hegemons!
Frank: (snorting) “Hegemons”? You’re throwing around words like a crossword puzzle with a superiority complex! Let me tell you something, kid: you’re as lost as a tourist in Queens with a GPS that only speaks Latin!
Woke Hipster: (looking affronted) Wow. Okay. That’s really dismissive of my truth. And can I just say, the fact that you’re not validating my lived experience right now feels, like, super gaslighty?
Frank: (mocking tone) “Gaslighty”? What the hell does that even mean?! You kids come up with words like you’re trying to fill a quota! “Gaslighty”? That sounds like a candle with low self-esteem!
Woke Hipster: (genuinely upset now) It’s emotional labour to explain this stuff to you, you know! And you’re not even trying to meet me halfway. Like, why are you even a therapist if you can’t hold space for my trauma?
Frank: (sarcastic) Oh, I’m sorry, your trauma?! Kid, you’re as fragile as a soap bubble in a sandstorm! You know what real trauma is? Real trauma is getting screamed at by a deli owner because you wanted your rye bread sliced thin! It’s coming home to find out your kid joined a karate dojo run by a guy named Kreese!
Woke Hipster: (confused) Who’s Kreese?
Frank: (shouting) Exactly! You don’t even know! That’s trauma! That’s life! Not whatever nonsense you’re whining about with your fancy drinks and your carrot conspiracies!
Woke Hipster: (quietly) Kombucha isn’t fancy... it’s fermented.
Frank: (throws up his hands again) Fermented? That’s just a fancy word for gone bad! And you’re drinking it like it’s gonna solve all your problems! Here’s a tip: no drink will fix your life unless it’s a shot of whiskey after a bad day!
Woke Hipster: (mutters under his breath) That’s, like, really toxic advice, Mr. Costanza.
Frank: (leaning back in his chair, triumphant) Call it what you want, kid, but it works. Now, pay me for the session and get out before I charge you extra for wasting my time with carrot politics!
