Williamsburg, besides being the reluctant "home" of this writer and many (at last count, seven) BlackBook staffers, has a not-so-shockingly high rate of danger. Think about it -- a bunch of tragically hip, oblivious former suburbanites move to the Big City. Is there a better target for crime out there? And so it goes: Machete-wielding gangs. Knife fights. Herpes. But now, the criminals move amongst us. Presenting the hipster con-woman, plus a hipster lit-mag that decrees the hipster archetype as dead as the bourgeois.

When aliens discover New York City in a few years and try to understand each neighborhood (as they inevitably will), this morning's filing from The New York Observer's Doree Shafrir should be all they need to read about Williamsburg. It's that amazing. There's your suburbanite import, a young lady named Kari Ferrell from Salt Lake City. There's your epitomal hipster magazine (she moved here and got a job at Vice). There's your physical hipster trappings: She had a tattoo that said "I Like Beards." And then there's the actual story: She conned a bunch of Billyburg hipsters. She took a cell phone, a bunch of money, and a few hearts. She told someone she was pregnant with his baby. She told someone else she had cancer and only three months to live. She had a criminal history ("He Googled her. Up popped a photo of his flirtatious new co-worker on the Salt Lake City Police Department’s Most Wanted list, wanted on five different warrants, including passing $60,000 in bad checks, forgery and retail theft."). A comment from the post, which went up this morning, reads:

I knew this bitch. Her audacity and lack of regard for others is positively stunning and cunning. She tapped into my general sympathy for humankind (and love of the band, "The Eels"), with her cancer sob story. At one point during our brief and regretful friendship, I even moaned to my therapist about Kari's wretched situation and how awful it is for someone so young to have to endure that.

Ouch. But if you think hipsters being rolled is bad, N+1 magazine -- run by a cabal of Ivy League grads intellectualizing topics ranging from Gawker to seminal Mexican author Roberto Bolano -- is trying to threaten the very existence of the hipster by claiming they're over. By six years. At a recent panel entitled "What Was the Hipster? An Afternoon Panel, Symposium, and Historical Investigation," topics discussed ranged from "post-colonialism, deregulation, easy credit, Chinese ownership of U.S. debt, Leon Trotsky, Slavoj Žižek, Pavement, Nirvana, Debbie Gibson, and Scott Baio." Now, ask yourself: isn't talking about hipsters, Nirvana, Pavement, Scott Baio, and Chinese ownership of U.S. debt kind of hipsterism in it of itself? Isn't talking about how something is "over" generated from whatever lies at the very heart of hipsterism?

It doesn't matter. Before someone's head explodes, we're gonna spell this one out for everyone: being a hipster is dangerous. You risk getting stabbed, conned, or a fate worse than death -- being deemed "over." We suggest foregoing whatever it is that makes you a hipster as soon as you possibly can, for your own safety, of course. Dress inconspicuously. Don't tell anyone you're a hipster. Don't associate with other hipsters. Don't get on any L-trains being re-routed. Leave the country as soon as you can. And burn every copy of any non-Conde Nast or Hearst-owned publication (hold our own) as soon as you possibly can. You wouldn't want Them to know. Be afraid. Be very afraid.