It is August in Chicago, and that, of course, means that young people have descended upon the city for Lollapalooza so that they can post Facebook albums of themselves drinking Budweiser tall boys with Kid Cudi in the background and the caption "post-punk punk is dead tho." It also means that it is very hot there, and as we all know, heat exacerbates assholery, and so the great hoopster tradition lives on.

A full year has passed since the world took note of the fucking hoopsters, and yet they are still wearing their fucking basketball jerseys to places like Lollapalooza, where enterprising citizen journalists like Disco Choo can capture their shame and share it with the rest of us. But something to consider, before we begin: Is there any chance at all, in the wake of last summer's general execration of the hoopster, that the hoopster is now ironically wearing ironic jerseys with a sense of personal irony? Has he matured beyond the "figurative castration" of the skinny jeans, to quote our friend and hoopster expert David Matthews? Is it possible that the hoopster has become self-aware? Is the fucking hoopster just fucking with us? Or are they still just fucking hoopsters?