To the jerk who stole my boyfriend's bike last night:
You are a terrible, terrible person. I don't think you understand the implications of your actions, or how selfish and greedy you are, or how you have altered my boyfriend's life for the worse. Not only did he use his bike as his preferred form of transportation, he was also planning on getting rid of his car within the next few days to save money. So that bike was going to be his SOLE form of transportation, until you took it from him.
Now he not only has to drive his car around (which he doesn't like to do), he also has to continue to pay insurance AND save up for a new bike. To top it all off, he was just telling me last night how much he loves his bike (right before it was stolen, no less) and planned to keep it for the rest of his life.
Now it's gone. Thanks a bunch for really screwing him over. Was it worth it?
to the loud-mouthed hipster chick sitting ahead of me at the Filmusik show on Friday, was this your first time at the movies, sweetie? You seemed clueless to the etiquette of public entertainment, so let me give you a few hints. First, don't talk to your stupid friends at conversational volume through the whole movie. You're not funny or clever and nobody gives a crap about what you have to say. Second, turn off your cell phone. I know it's your sacred life-line to the world, but you can twit/text/talk/facebook/whatthefuckever on your own time, not on mine. Third, your laugh is fake and obnoxious. You laughed like a horse at every turn just to show how "fun" you are. Fake. Granted, it was a spaghetti western, but we hardly needed any more equine sound effects coming from your dumb mouth. I felt like smacking that stupid flower off the back of your stupid Katie Perry looking skull whenever you made a noise, which was, oh, every 2 seconds. Also, you made it apparent that you were a friend of the band, but could you shut up and just listen? No. Not even your friends were given the courtesy of your attention. So I hope these tips will help you the next time you are out in public, but probably not. Oh, and by the way, your boyfriend may not know it yet, but he's gay.
Dear ex. I walked by your old job today and I got really sad. I don't tell you this, so it won't give you false hope, but I really miss you. A lot. We had so much fun together. I love that I became such an integral part of your circle. I wish we could have made things work. I wish I could have communicated better when I was angry or feeling hurt. I wish you could have sobered up when you started to notice I was slipping away. I wish you had spent time with me on your vacation instead of the bottle and your pillow. I wish we had gone on more adventures together. I wish we had done some of the stuff we used to dream about. I wish I did that thing to your hair I wanted to do before we broke up. I wish I didn't miss you. And I wish you could see yourself for how sweet and kind and funny you really are, and put down the fucking booze. You can't handle it like other people can. It's getting you nowhere.
I work all day. 8:30-5:30, a significant amount of it on my feet. The only thing I want to do when I get on my bus ride home, is sit down, listen to my music and maybe read a book. I find that to not be an option however, because on my packed #8, your BAG is taking up a seat. I understand that there isn't much room. I know you may have been at work as well. However, I am relatively positive that you didn't purchase a fare for you, and your carry-on. I don't think it's asking that much, for you to place that purse/backpack/messenger either on the floor or in your own damn lap. Do you not notice all of the people standing? I do, and I find it fucking rude, that I have to deal with your stink-eyes and heavy sighs just because I ask if you can move your worthless crap. I paid good money for that seat, I intend to use it.
Dear hardcore/straightedge vegan kids protesting against animal testing outside the AXA Group on SW 1st and Columbia,
As a long time vegan I fully support your cause but when you have a group of people wearing all black with bandanas over your faces and yelling shit like, "WE WILL NEVER BOW DOWN!" in your best Hatebreed voice, you kind of come across as unapproachable d-bags. Notice how everyone walking by was crossing to the other side of the street? Just sayin'.
P.S. It's cool that two of you had megaphones but maybe don't hold them right up against your mouths. I honestly would have had no idea what you were yelling about if i didnt ask for a flyer.
Is it really that fucking difficult to post the price of your show on the flyer, www.pc-pdx.com (which is completely free to use), or in the ad you put in the local rags?
You take the time to not only make a flyer or put together an ad, but you can't take the extra 5 minutes to list the price?
I will skip your show 9 out of 10 times if the price isn't listed prior to showing up at the venue. Why? Because I don't like mystery prices for shows. It makes me wonder how many other people skip your shows for the same reason.
Seriously, it just reeks of laziness and half-assedness.
A friend called up and asked if they could borrow stuff. We said come on over, and went to open the driveway gate — to find a car parked across our driveway. We called Parking Enforcement, and then sat on our porch for the next hour listening to the sounds of Last Thursday — drivers arguing over right of way on our narrow sidestreet, even going so far as to harass the parking officer for doing his job. Fifteen minutes after the officer called the tow truck, but five minutes before it came by, the owner of the car showed up; he said he thought our driveway was "not in use," (whatever that means) and then got angry with us for calling the cops. I really hope he gets a ticket in the mail.
When our friend showed up, another car was partially blocking our driveway such that they had to go around the block and climb the curb to get in; they wound up waiting nearly an hour before they could get back out. We called Parking Enforcement again. I finally got to go to bed after midnight, listening to the sounds of drunkards arguing or laughing at the tops of their voices as they tried to remember where they parked.
This is our experience with every Last Thursday, Street Fair, or special event that happens on Alberta, especially in 'decent' weather; we either sit on our porch and police our access to the street, or we lose it. The next day we go out and find trash and bottles flung over our fence (this week — a pair of socks!).
The people in charge of these things refuse to realize that there is not enough parking in this neighborhood for what they're trying to do. We don't have enough space here for the neighborhood and the existing businesses; and every art gallery, wineseller, eaterie, and yoga place where you can sweat your privileged ass off just increases the pressure, while every event turns the side streets into a pressure cooker full of white upper middle class yuppies from other neighborhoods who feel we should grovel at them for gracing us with their presence. If this kind of thing happened on their street they'd be screaming to whoever would listen. But we who live just off Alberta are supposed to be grateful they clog our streets and block our access so they can go patronize places we can't afford to go into. And this is exactly the type of "negativity" that the Friends of Last Thursday has 'uninvited' from their meetings. Go figure.
To the family at the starlight parade (yeah it was a while ago, but bet your ass there will be another one next year) could you please leave you massive husky at home? This is after all a parade geared toward families and especially children. While I get that he's a part of your family, he sure as fuck ain't a part of mine. So imagine my disgust, when your FILTHY dog not only sat on my blanket, but close to my child's food. The urge to not curb stomp not only him but you took a countdown from 200 from me. There are plenty of dog friendly functions in town, this one ain't it. Save that shit for last Thursday.
I started reading your magazine when I was about 18. Oh what a glorious world it was, I could be a feminist and still pay attention to what happened on TV! I could learn to dissect messages in a way I'd never thought of. I always found the writing humorous and irreverent. It made me dream of being a pop culture feminist writer too.
(Obviously that never happened.)
And then you moved to Portland. I was so excited! Bitch Magazine in my city! But then, slowly, I realized the Bitch of San Francisco is not the same Bitch of Portland.
Ever wonder why you're constantly on a drive to keep your ever so valuable contribution to society in print? It's because you suck. You hire terrible bloggers with no real insight or qualifications to post. Jezebel has way more talented writers than you. (Mainly because suck attracts suck.)
You screen the shit out of comments that disagree with your authors. Not to mention every single goddamned post is dripping with Portlandia style condescension. One of the beautiful things about Old Bitch was it was accessible and funny. Now you're in the midst of some ridiculous circle schlick that consists of self involved clones.
And wow, Freaks and Geeks had a good female character? What the fuck? Is this 1999? Your time is done. Pack up shop and move the fuck on.
(Here's hoping I, Anonymous picks this up, because lord knows you could give a fuck about what people outside the schlicking circle think.)
I have, for some time, totally appreciated having the proximity of food cart pods close to my residence. The diverse cuisine, friendly atmosphere and bargain prices have been a huge welcome to the shabby alternate.
That is, until I saw YOU; picking and eating your own SCABS in between customers without washing your hands to boot!
From the communal seating area, I witnessed you plucking away at your elbow and slyly munching out on your own body parts thinking that you were in some sort of blind spot. Is/was it yummy?
I wanted to yell at you but I couldn't bring myself to spoil my friends meals.
What I would like to know is why the fuck you going to eat your own dried blood when you have all those amazing ingredients abound?
And didn't your mommy tell you to leave it alone so it would heal?
Thankfully I've never been a patron to your gross ass skin shack as I would have probably ralphed right there.
What's for dessert? Boogers? You dirty little scab eater.
I was walking my bike on the sidewalk on Hawthorne in front of the 12th ave food carts. Your little white hatchback was parked halfway on the sidewalk. There was a trashcan taking up the other half of the sidewalk. Instead of just standing there and waiting for you to move your car (I didn't even see that you were inside it), I attempted to move the trashcan with my free hand. But it was really full and heavy! I didn't even move it an inch, and I ended up falling off balance, and my handlebar made contact with your car. It was just a tap! Well, you totally flipped out. You leaned over your poor, frightened-looking son and proceeded to scream at me. "WHAT? IS THAT WHAT YOU JUST DID? YOU JUST HIT MY CAR? OH GREAT. YEAH FINE I'LL MOVE." And so on. I couldn't get a word in to try and explain myself. You just assumed I intentionally barged into your car in order to punish you for parking on the sidewalk. Then you peeled out, still screaming, and burned around the corner. For the sake of your son, man, chill the hell out. He probably has to endure your rage day in and day out, and it probably sucks for him.
Are you really asking me on my bicycle for gas money out the window of your shiny new car at this intersection?
Ok you are.
Are you actually getting mad now because I said no?
Ok you are, this is happening.
If you can't afford to drive a car don't buy one, dickhead.
You are as incompetent as you are annoying, we all stopped saying half of your "humorous" observations in 9th grade. And frankly if we go to the bar, you're not invited. I'd rather do nothing but watch Boehner's speeches for 4 hours than spend any additional time listening to your pathetic drivel.
We're also pretty sure you lied about your background given you know absolutely nothing about anything. And stopping to listen for two minutes? Well that might help.
Oh and those buzzwords you learned? STOP USING THEM. They make you sound even more like a moron. Portland is a small town and I know for a fact several of your acquaintances laugh at you and call you an idiot the minute you turn around.
We all fucking hate you and wish you'd vanish to some other kind of idiot land, possibly with popped collars and aging douche-bros like yourself. This wouldn't be a bad place to be if anyone and I mean anyone took your place. (Note: I have an excellent poster of Raggedy Ann and Andy that would look perfect in your stead.)
You two seemed nice enough. A guy and a girl tring to enjoy the Nine Inch Nails show at the Clark County Ampitheater. I was standing behind you, with my dad of all people, basically ruining everything for you. When I spilled my beer down your shirt collar and chair, I saw you jump at the cold mess you had to spend the rest of the show tolerating. When I kept smoking, even though you're not supposed to there, I saw you put up with it. And when all the lights went down and Trent sang "Hurt," I know that it was my drunken belt-along a foot behind your head that you heard above the amps. You gave me a look of "c'mon dude" and I pretended not to care. I did, and I do. That show was probably five years ago, and I've often looked back, knowing that I was the drunk asshole behind you that tainted your (rather expensive) show. I just want to say that I regret it. I'm sorry. I hope when NIN came back, to the Rose Garden this time, that you guys had a better experience. I am sorry.
Thank you for attracting the amazing person who found my lost car key at Horning's last weekend and turned it into the lost and found in the medical tent. Sir or madam-you are a hero, a saint, a person whose magic and wonder know no equal. I am committed to doing 7 good deeds to equalize my kharmic debt. The multiplier effect of your act shall be felt across Portland and maybe even the universe. All hail the finder of lost keys!! Here's a hug.
To the texting guy I honked at, I'm sorry I wasn't minding "my" business. I'm sorry I incited you to cuss me out in front of my daughter. I'm sorry I didn't pull over so you could kick my ass, as you obviously wanted to. But most of all, I'm sorry you don't realize that it's illegal / dangerous / rude to text while you are driving. If you are driving anywhere while drunk, texting, talking on your phone, double-fisting a burger, getting a blow job, or WHATEVER it is you do that diverts your attention from the road, it is EVERYONE'S business. Can you not pull over, or wait until you are stopped somewhere safe? I doubt that your text is so important that you need to risk the safety and well-being of the people around you - in fact, I doubt an important text has ever been sent by anyone. Hang up and drive, or go back to L.A. (Trust me, people, I lived there, and if this guy isn't from there, it's where he should be.)
Dear unpleasant bitch: I enjoy PDX pop now every year, and I applaud the efforts the community makes to allow kids access to amazing local music, even if it means i have to pull one aside to say "hey quit throwing your elbows out in the mosh pit, its affecting my fun" but you, you are a full grown lady, with sharp fucking elbows. The kids listen, but i had to come back to you a second time and talk to you like a fucking child. this is not a metal show, there is no way you thought that wouldn't hurt people, people like me and my xyphoid process. You are not entitled to the front of the pit, you do not need to protect your "photographer" boyfriend, he seemed to be doing fine without you. I hope you get hit in the head with a rock and are rendered unable to enjoy music.
Nice job you idiot hipster parents. As you danced about at the edge of the stage at Sunday's Los Lonely Boys/Los Lobos concert, your poor child clawed at his/her ears and screamed in pain.
Since you were both too busy to notice the signs of your child in distress, I'll help out and translate for your kid: "Aiiiieeee!! Mommy, I can't hear, what is that horrible deafening noise, get me the fuck out of here!" Or perhaps later in life: "Fuck you Dad, thanks for the hearing loss."
You tried to put earplugs in his/her ears, but it was clearly too much for your kid. That should have been the sign for one of you fools to move back with your child. Way back.
And, no, Daddy's fedora and soul patch and Mommy's hip white dress don't make it all ok.
You have every right to blast the hell out of your own ears at a show; just hire a sitter next time and don't scramble your kid's brain. You can choose; your kid can't!
"Oh, wait . . . what's that?"
"Yes, this is an umbrel—"
"Al Gore says what now? He doesn't believe in RAINING? I won't need—"
(Oh, good Christ!)
Look, buddy: I don't know how far removed you & your buddies are from established science thanks to the "teachings" whomever the NeoCon flavor-of-the-week pundit happens to be at the current moment, but: "global heating" is NOT a belief. The "greenhouse effect" is not a belief, any more than the clouds & firmament itself are.
Don't like the "greenhouse effect" model? Well . . . how 'bout the "smoky bar" model? What happens when people go into a bar, fire up cigarettes, and exhale the smoke into THAT enclosed space?
That's right: it fills with smoke! (And, uh, no, unlike a bar: you CAN'T "properly ventilate" the firmament!)
I know, I know: "it's just a theory!" (So's Einstein's "Theory" of Relativity, and I won't even BOTHER mentioning Heisenberg's "Uncertainty" Principle — I bet you'd have a FIELD DAY with that!)
Science is complicated, you stupid bitch, and just because I'm a generation-younger-than-you male and you want to get into a dick-swinging contest with me 'cuz you left your wife and kids at home in the suburbs doesn't mean I'm going to know what the hell you're talking about if you accost me “apropos of nothing” at Lloyd Center for no discernible other reason than that I happen to be carrying an umbrella at the time, and — next thing you know — I'm like, “Here comes some weird dude in his 50's with an oddly-rigid look in his eyes . . . what's this all about?”
Leave me alone, Mr. "Irreverent," Neo-Con, rebel "scientist." Why don't you go . . . uh, pray for rain!
Dear Luke, former produce boy at Food Front Co-op:
A couple of years ago, I drank a cup of mushroom tea on a beautiful snowy morning, and decided for no particular reason to pick up a bag of cotton balls before my adventure through the woods. Not too shockingly, I started peaking as soon as I walked into the store, and the awesomeness of it all was compounded when you, my sometime fellow flirt, magically appeared to help me. I asked as straight-faced as possible where the cotton balls were, and you jokingly handed me a bag of marshmallows—and you have no idea how hilarious and mind-bogglingly charming this was, because you of course had no idea I was peaking on mushrooms at the time. Your gesture and my late-morning inebriation inspired me to give you my number before leaving the store, and led subsequently to our EXTREMELY AWKWARD date, which ended with me reflexively giving you the friend-hug I give all my guy friends, because I was distracted the whole time debating whether to tell you or not that I was tripping balls when I made my move and that you at the time were pretty much the best thing in the universe. I wish I'd been tripping during our date instead—I would have kissed you a lot, and it would have made the movie we went to much better. Anyway, I see you around town now and then, and I always want to confess, I think you'd appreciate the story. I think you have a girlfriend now, but you're still pretty foxy and I had a great time meeting you. Even though it didn't work out, I'm glad tripping on mushrooms at least gave me the guts to be forward once. Your turn!
Really Porland youth, really? All those masters degrees, all that potential. And all I see you do is get drunk every single night of the week. And driving drunk to boot. Regularly.
How do you even afford that? Especially considering the levels of intoxication I regularly observe. Walking up Grand towards Burnside is like running the gauntlet of drunk kids who act smug until they're barfing in the gutter crying about stupid shit that could have been prevented if they hadn't drank to excess in the first place.
Come on. Wake up. Shit needs to get done. And getting blackout drunk every night and then bragging about it isn't going to fix any of those social issues you loudly and regularly pontificate about.
Sober up dipshits.
While you got plastered on Ruby Reds in your pseudo-hippie dress, trying desperately to hook up with the dude on your left, exposing your stupid "Shiva" neck tattoo, the rest of us were trying to enjoy the show that cost $40 per person. The topper though was when you somehow managed to spill half a pint of beer OVER your head and onto our blanket and my leg. But of course you were too busy calming yourself with your shitty meditation practices to bother apologizing or offer up something to clean the mess. I hope the alcohol monitor I called over when we left was a welcome surprise.
Dear Most new Seasons employees,
Shut up! Why do you care what 'plans I have for later'? Why do you think I care that you're going to 'go to your sister's house' after your shift? Why do you need to know what I'm going to cook, based on the ingredients I'm buying? I just want to buy some food and go home. I don't want to have to prepare a small talk subject as I'm waiting, so I don't feel stupid by saying, "I'm doing NOTHING tonight but drinking every one of these 10 beers and every drop of this bottle of cava I'm buying." after you ask me the constant, "What's up for tonight?!" like we're best friends. I don't want to have to explain what I do for a living, nor do I want to answer questions about a tattoo on my arm. I don't want to explain how I get to and from the store, nor what I have in terms of plans for the weekend. Maybe New Seasons should follow Fred Meyers' and install some SELF CHECK MACHINES, then I wouldn't have to blather on about some inane subject as I'm trying to buy shit. New Seasons truly holds their customers hostage by making them commit small talk with their employees. (This is not about the kind Santa Claus type gentlemen at the Arbor Lodge location - I love him.)
Fuck you! Remember that girl you tried to kill while she was riding her bike to work in Beaverton, she's going to find you and make you choke on a giant bag of teeny tiny dicks. I was minding my business, and travelling the goddamn speed limit in the goddamn left turn lane, because I was turning left dipshit. You were never even behind me at all. That didn't stop you from getting dangerously close to my right side, yelling at me to get in the fucking bike lane and swerving your SEMI-TRUCK (WTF) in front of me trying to hit me. You're deranged and you scared the shit out of me. You're a professional driver? You're a fucking menace and you ruined my day. I couldn't stop crying for over an hour, I thought I was going to die. I hope the police find you and you get skull fucked in jail.
Since I`ve lived here, I have found out but not told, that most people move in hordes, of their own kind, and that`s shitty and annoying. You may find "urban tribes" that don`t have anything to do with another ones, which the hipsters here say "It`s awesome". Also, they have interstellar highways where all complications are avoided. You have to work, a little, but is still work. Most stuff is free, and taxes are low. Also, they are Poly-Universal in Real Time (That`s Impossible!), and quiet and reserved about their goings.
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