hi! hot girl who walks down my busy n/ne street, and the one that works at the movie store, and the one that works at the coffee bar, and the one that works at the food cart, and the one at the record store, and the bike messenger, you are so good looking and i would really like to talk to you but there is one thing keeping me from doing that: your dreadlocks. They are so gross. Have you ever cut one open to see what is inside? mold. I mean, sure, maybe you shampoo and whatever but anything you need to defend by saying "THEY'RE REALLY CLEAN" is not clean. No, "I wash them every day" is not a valid excuse, they are gross. and not at all good looking, medusa.

Hey dog owners, how about you stop dragging your K9’s along with you to the grocery store, coffee shop, etc. and leaving them tied up outside. You’re creating a potentially dangerous situation for the pet you supposedly love. Case in point: Today I saw some crazed out yahoo tossing a piece of Twix bar to a tied up pup. I gave the guy shit and all but pinched the head of his penis in the vice-like grip of my forefinger and thumb, but he laughed maniacally like Brad Pitt in Twelve Monkeys and ran off. A year ago I saw a dog that was tied to a newspaper box get riled up by a passing pit bull and pull the entire contraption over, creating a tremendous thud that very nearly caused at least one of its legs to go all Greg Oden. If your dog is super nice, then someone could easily steal it. If your dog is mean, its presence without an owner is a nuisance for anyone else trying to walk their dogs. Maybe a passerby is a prick and will let their dog attack yours while it’s defenseless and stuck in place. Your dog could get itself tangled up and choke. Or some asshole can feed it chocolate for the lulz. Your pets aren’t accessories for your walk that you should just leave outside to whatever random fate the nuts of Portland bestow upon it. Act like you care about your furry friend and stop being an asshole.

A long time ago, circa 1999, at the tender age of 17, I was a slightly chubby, awkward girl with an obsession. I had a thing for you- and your big, soft hands that were so skilled at working on your classic car- and I used to walk the streets at night, singing Riverdales tunes, over to your neighborhood just to see if your bedroom light was on. On one such occasion, I took my pet rat with me and, emboldened by the still and quiet night, I opened the door of your 1965 El Camino and slid inside. I slumped down in the seat and was nearly caught by your father when he came out on the porch. A few minutes later, he was back inside and I was shimmying my pants down on the fake leather seat of your car-truck. I set my rat loose and started to pleasure myself right there in your driveway! The faint smell of you was still in the car, and I could picture your dark eyes and your bright smile... When I was finished, I pulled my pants back up, put my rat back on my shoulder, and dissappeared back to my own neighborhood, and you were never the wiser. But anytime you would give me a ride in that El Camino I would blush thinking about what happened in there, inspired by you, that you would never know about.

Hey you fat fuck in the piece of shit mini Cooper - I was on my bike & you tried to run me over at NE Naito & NE Lloyd @ the east end of the steel bridge - the bike signal indicated no right turn, but apparently you are so fucking mentally deficient you can't understand rudimentary signals and even more so, figure your fat ass can carry you anywhere you wish because yr a shining star, ego bound, dumbass - yr a brave motherfucker acting like yr gonna get out of your fucking clown car and go mano y mano and then just speed off - I ever again see your tumescent, sausage like, saggy-assed, middle-aged, fucking punk bitch, cheap suit, porky-pig-fat-ass I will beat you so savagely you'll be wearing adult diapers and all who love you will wish you had died, as you sit there drooling and shitting in yr pants.

Oh it's that time of year again. The rain is starting to subside and the sun is slowly coming back from it's winter vacation. And with that, city wide all you twerps are dusting off your little color coordinated accessories from their winter hibernation, known as the "fixed-gear" Guess what kiddies, as you may know there are other seasons of the year here. Unlike you, the rest of us get on our bikes to commute, or for recreation with no regards to the state of the weather. We don our gear, we bundle up and we brave the elements on a daily basis. The cold, rain and snow have no affect on us. For we are cyclists. So when the sun comes out and I see you all coming out of the woodwork, I cant help but laugh. You are not cyclists. You are a fucking fashion statement. And you're not fooling anyone.

To the drugged out hipster douche bag who donkey kicked me in the knee at a concert last weekend: FUCK YOU IN YOUR UGLY FUCKING BLUE HIPSTER-HAWKED FACE AND ASS!! Yes. Both. At the same time. With as many huge herpes ridden dicks as possible. You wanna know why? It's not just because you fucking flailed out and donkey kicked me in the knee while you were “dancing” around. It's not just because when I tried to PHYSICALLY RESTRAIN YOU while repeatedly staying "STOP!" after your "dancing" assaulted several other concert goers, or that you grabbed my arms, while digging your nails into my flesh and stared at me blankly, like a research chimp with wires shoved up its ass. It is mostly because you and your obnoxious glitter and feather clad girlfriend, who by the way looked like she had just fucked a chicken in a greasy vat of glitter and scabies, danced around all night like strung out, schizophrenic, sociopaths. THERE ARE OTHER PEOPLE AT THIS FUCKING SHOW!!! Other people, who have no problem dancing and having a good time and are just trying to enjoy a concert. I would kindly ask you to die in a fire and put the rest of the world out of its misery, but I fear that the fumes from your charred corpse would give anyone nearby some sort of horrific communicable disease. You are lucky I didn’t press assault charges. I still have marks on both of my arms and my knee. Go choke on your own shitty,blue, hipster-hawk dick-bag.

The fact that you call yourselves a "health service" is a joke. There is nothing healthy about what goes on in that clinic. You are nothing more than legalized dope pushers who sustain your livelihood by stringing people out on narcotics. You attempt to legitimize what you do by claiming that you are "helping people" who are victims of addiction, but all you're doing is cashing in on a vulnerable section of society by keeping them addicted to narcotics. Your cash cow consists of hundreds of junkies who line up every day to pay you, what is it, $75? $100? $200 a week? -to imbibe the spirits that keep them coming back for more, because if they don't come back what will happen to them? They'll get very sick, won't they? They will become unbearably, agonizingly sick, and then they'll go out into our community and do whatever it takes, up to and including inflicting grievous harm upon innocent victims.
If you really wanted to "help" people you would get the hell out of Portland and not return. The few (probably 1/2 of 1%) of the patients at your clinic who honestly need methadone can get it from a doctor, and the rest of the addicts who are victims of your scam can get the help they need from a detox service and through ongoing counseling and support. Take your legalized dope pushers and go back to whatever sick hole in Hell you crawled out of.

WELCOME TO THE NEW I, ANONYMOUS BLOG. While many of the rants you're currently reading are definitely entertaining—it can also be a little... much, sometimes. Don'tchathink? That's why we'll occasionally post a "I, Anonymous Chill Out Tent" where you can come in, sit down, and just... you know... chill out for a minute. It's like a palate cleanser before jumping back into the muck. So here's something we hope will help:

Hey I understand stuff like this is amazing, but you don’t need to come in here with a bunch of your drunk friends and see if you can all fit in one booth, and make fun of all the glory holes. You guys were super loud, confrontational and extra ignorant. Everybody hanging out answered you and your friends really stupid questions, like. “Are these holes in the walls in the booths for like, dude’s dicks?” and then “You guys beat off in here. Cool, I beat off too. But why here?” And “Where’s all the slutty chicks?” The people that frequent this store are here for a variety of reasons. You didn’t give me the time to explain, AT ALL, the different reasons. I actually would have. I am not ashamed that I frequent these places to suck dude’s dicks and if I am unlucky only masturbate. There are no chicks here because 75 percent of the guys standing around are here for the same reason. The other 25 percent want to be left alone to watch the porn and yes, masturbate. And finally I think some people just like these places, they like being around porn. What is going to surprise you, as this shouldn’t by now, is that one of your buddies came back an hour later and sort of “hung out” in one of the booths. Now that should give you pause. Heck, it might even have been you.—Anonymous

Just because you work at the hippest grocery store in town does not entitle you to be a self-righteous ass. I know your company's mission statement and it doesn't say anything about making your customers feel like punching you. I came in with a flu, a fever, and a grocery bag made of crocheted plastic grocery bags. All I needed was soup and yogurt. What I did not need was to be scowled at and told at the checkout that my bag is going to remain on this earth for 5,000 years. Thank you, Professor Bag Boy. My bag is made of reused old bags, you twat. Has the paper vs. plastic vs. cotton war in Portland gotten so bad that this means nothing? I felt too ill and dizzy to respond, and I almost cried when I left out of sick-person frustration. Shame on you. — Anonymous

Dear Local Baptist Church...
I'm writing to let you know that someone from your congregation came to my outer SE neighborhood to pass out tracts today. This gray haired, bespectacled fellow literally drove up in his gray truck and asked my 11 and 9 year-old children "if they wanted candy" before he handed them a flier, which stated they were hell-bound.

Besides my long-winded litany of objections I have toward your fucktard proselytizing, my main beef with your member is his method. Many of you are parents, and I can imagine how upset one of you would be if any asshole off the street offered your children candy. I called the police to notify them that this guy is using pedophile tricks to pass out fliers in our neighborhood. I would appreciate it if you would maybe reiterate to your congregation that it is NOT okay to bait children this way—our neighborhood has unfortunately seen several near-kidnappings that have began this very way. Please fuck off and keep your scum to yourself and away from our kids.
Thanks a million in Jesus bucks,
Anonymous

To the shrieking British twat who berated at my friends and I at the Timbers Open Cup match, I have one question: Do your privileges as head cheerleader ensure that you get to blow every player after the game? I realize that, in the heat of the moment, we said a chant that's outdated (sorry, real Timbers fans, honestly). But, I do other things with my life besides blast myself to the latest
chants on Twitter. I could understand it if my behavior caused you to miss a goal, but for you to throw that level of conniption fit over a chant just proves that MOST of you fuckers at the Timbers games are more interested in singing and pogoing and throwing shit rather than the actual gameplay. I'd have asked you my initial question at the time, but I'm pretty sure you'd have punched me. And the last thing I need is to get punched by a silly, cheer-crazy cunt like you. — Anonymous

To the Jersey Shore wannabes at Devils Point tonight,

just because you’re “having a birthday party” does not mean you can all stand in a group and block the stage. I am a regular costumer who tips even if I have to sit way at the back because the place is packed. No I do not have “my panties in a bunch” all I expect is a little common decency, think about the others around you and don’t plant your fat ass right in front of the stage. The next big mistake you made was trying to grab me when all I was asking was for you to move three feet to the side so everyone could see, and I want to thank the bouncer for promptly kicking your asses out of the place. Now you can get in your stretch hummer and go back to whatever dark bridge you crawled out from under you trolls. — Anonymous

Dear Family in White SUV outside my house,

Yes, we see you've pulled over, oh and we feel sorry that one of your 2.5 children is a little car sick, i feel a little compassion for him. Yet i wonder, will you leave that puke in front of my house? as i wonder if i should open the door to that young boy's embarrassment and his family's shame to yell, "get off my lawn!" i go get a beer. And yes, when i come back there is no white SUV, only a small bag of puke. I wonder if that small bag of puke that i will have to put in the garbage, water-logged, is worth saving that young boy from embarrassement. Yes i think but not his parents, so fuck you for not walking the 5 feet to my trash can or taking your family puke with you!—Anonymous

WELCOME TO THE NEW I, ANONYMOUS BLOG. While many of the rants you're currently reading are definitely entertaining—it can also be a little... much, sometimes. That's why we'll occasionally post a "I, Anonymous Chill Out Tent" where you can come in, sit down, and just... you know... chill out for a minute. It's like a palate cleanser before jumping back into the muck. So here's something we hope will help:

Dear drunken goons who flock to Old Town on the weekends,
I understand that many of you have crippling doubts about your worthiness and masculinity. The world can be a tough place and many of you lack a job, a girlfriend or a meaningful life.
That being said: Stop fucking attacking the trees on my street! Every year the city plants new trees on my street and every year you pathetic clowns rip them limb from limb on your stumble to the car at 2am while you mindlessly whoop at the moon and vomit on yourselves.
Next time you wish to prove your manhood and/or flail in impotent rage, have the balls to take it out on someone who would happily fight back: the bouncer who threw you out of the club, the scary-looking guy who works out too much at the bar, one of our neighborhood’s many crack dealers or a cop.
Here’s hoping the next tree you damage is the one that kills you when you wrap your car around it on your weekly drunken drive home.—Anonymous

The first really warm sunny weekend of the spring, and you have some assholes out there running a power washer for THREE FUCKING HOURS STRAIGHT!?!? EDGING YOUR LAWN WITH A POWER WASHER!?!?!?!? What the fuck?!?!?!? Are you the fucking stupiedest person in the whole fucking world? There are several tools you can use to edge your lawn, AND NONE OF THEM ARE A FUCKING POWER WASHER THAT HAS TO RUN OFF A GENERATOR FOR OVER THREE FUCKING HOURS ON A SUNNY SUNDAY!!!!!!!!! Cars driving up and down the street stopped and stared in disbelief. Even my dogs were annoyed. You suck beyond belief. —Anonymous

To the not-so-classy couple a short step away from a public indecency ticket in the park, get a fucking room. I was trying to relax, soak up the rare Portland sun on a gorgeous day, and you had to come, lay your blanket directly in front of my own, and spend hours grunting and groping one another. Your over exaggerated P.D.A. made me sick to my stomach. Trust me, I tried my best to ignore you, listen to music, mind my own business, but you refused let up. I anticipated the moment that an unsuspecting pooch might come your way and mistake you for his own personal fire hydrant. Did you think that made people jealous, or was it a cover because you lack any real substance together. All I know is that in no way was that 'cute', it was the most trashy, classless display you could have put on. Next time, take your fucking pre-cum soaked blanket and American Apparel V-necks to another park, because if it happens again believe me I won't hold myself back from strutting right past and hawking a loogie headed on a course straight for your face.—Anonymous

Dear Jeld-Wen Field:
Fuck you. dont you realizae that around 70% of your fans are smokers? and you think its ok tyo take away our smoking section, and replace it with 16 year olds in blue shirts telling me not to smoke?!?! i hope somebody shits in your mouth then holds it shut. im a season ticket holder and have been for the past several years, we used to have a smoking section, it was great, 700 people minimum crammed into a small space at halftime, and timber hoey came out and would rev up the chainsaw and carve some of the pavement. BADASS. now theres nothing except having an open door, that looks like a smoking section but, NO, "this out door area was made to take stress off the vendors during halftime" FUck you, and the horse you rode in on. I'm stil;l smoking at timbers games, and your jeld-wen bullshit can't stop me. go sell a door, or a window, or your daughters ass, but let me smoke my fucking cigarettes! assholes.—Anonymous

I used to know some bikers, and at the time I thought they were damn fine people. But now I'm starting to suspect you're all a bunch of assholes. You opened a biker bar near my house, and I now know you illegally modify your pipes just to make your bikes obnoxiously loud. Some of you honestly believe having a louder bike improves your safety on the road, despite your own hearing loss and the fact that you can barely reach your handlebars. In a city teeming with silent cyclists who get around just fine, I really don't think revving your engine for 10 minutes in front of a bar is making you any safer. Any other business that quadruples the amount of traffic noise in a residential neighborhood would have to move out by the airport, but for some reason the city of Portland allows you to make at least 6 square blocks of homes feel like they live next to a racetrack. For nearly a decade I've spent every spare weekend and dollar trying to make my home a nicer place, and now every weekend the sun is out I can barely talk to my partner over your stupid hogs. If you respected my right to some peace and quiet on my own property, I would respect you as human beings, but you don't, so I don't. You all seem much too okay with selfishly getting your thrills at the expense of everyone within earshot. You are nothing but noise pollution to me.—Anonymous

I am upset by the men in Portland. It is slim pickin's if a girl wants a man who fits all the criteria: handsome, sane, and loyal. To the passive aggressive self involved Peter Pans of Portland, who aren't currently looking for their Wendy, fucking give up the act and look around. Not ever girl is holding an arm load of baggage. Dry your pussy ass tears, tear down that jaded wall and give us ladies a chance. I've approached many of you and your "emotionally unavailable" act is tiresome. I'm exhausted from doing all the ground work. No one owes you anything! Get off your ass and talk to us! While you're flying around being aloof, the Wendy's of Portland are hanging on the window sill, clinging for dear life. — Anonymous

WELCOME TO THE NEW I, ANONYMOUS BLOG. While many of the rants you're currently reading are definitely entertaining—it can also be a little... much, sometimes. Don'tchathink? That's why we'll occasionally post a "I, Anonymous Chill Out Tent" where you can come in, sit down, and just... you know... chill out for a minute. It's like a palate cleanser before jumping back into the muck. So here's something we hope will help:

Shut the fuck up. Don't even look at me: I will not be your one black friend. You are not exceptional. You are not different. You drink too much beer and use your dogs to get laid. You think you're so fucking brilliant for living in Portland; you are not. You haven't even earned the right to wax nostalgic about this city, though you do it daily. You were not here in the golden age of skinheads and hippies. No matter how many food carts you frequent, or farmers markets you infest, you will remain a replica of every other smug white bastard here. And by the way, stupid white men: stop trying to pick me up at New Seasons. I will not be the dark black notch on your lily white bedpost. Fuck all y'all.—Anonymous

To that twat licking little mega whore: You were the worst "best friend" ever! Did you find your life so un-exhilerating that you had to blab the private content of mine to everyone? You're the most fake, pretencious, naive little cunt I know. Let me give you some advice. Quit smoking cigarettes, nobody thinks your cool. Quit drinking, your a sloppy whiney drunk. Quit slammin' the water, you might get addicted; pff dumbass. Oh, and even though Im all about the Mary-Jane, if your having the "withdrawls" and "come-down" you speak of, maybe it's time to put down the pipe and go back to school, you ignorant skooz. Remember that time you watched me have sex with that dude, like a creeper? Then called me a whore, well that maybe so. Were we differ there is I'm a whore, and your a practice girl. So either take yourself off your high horse, or I'll gladly lend a hand and push you off. You were a bad friend, yet a great D.U.F.F (designated ugly fat friend). — Anonymous

Every time my BFF or I need a new vibrator or some humorously tall platform glitter shoes, you're the porn store we turn to. That's why when BFF urgently needed a pair of sexcuffs on Easter Sunday, we came straight to you. And my, were we delighted to see that you had a holiday promotion going on: spend $50 and pick a prize egg from the basket. In fact, we spent $80 and were thrilled when your employee slipped a dainty pink vibrator/massage lotion set into our bag. When we pulled it out on our way home, we noticed something was very, very wrong. Our hot pink box was held closed with several strips of packing tape; a clear indication that it had been previously opened. Willing to give your shop the benefit of the doubt, we assumed it had merely been a display model. But oh, no. We pulled the actual vibrator out of the box and it was STICKY as in someone had previously smeared it with LUBE and USED it. We also noticed that the bottle of massage lotion was only a quarter full. And, the icing on the cake: A DEAD BABY COCKROACH was at the bottom of the box. Eeeeeew. Ever heard of coupons? Because seriously, giving away sticky, used sex toys as a way to lure in unsuspecting customers is hands down the WORST idea anyone has ever had. Next time, I'll be taking my business to the shop giving away penis gummies with purchase. — Anonymous