When you were walking out of the Portland Poetry Slam I assumed you were coming back. I assumed I would be able to follow up my witty comment regarding your performance. Alas, the retort expired as swiftly as the wit; neither were meant to be. Contrary to my actions, I am not a walking dildo. I should have said something nice, I should have complimented you work (particularly when you opened up for Jeff Tweedy on his solo tour featured in the Wilco Documentary or Sadaam Hussein), I should have offered to buy you a drink, we could have talked about punk rock, i should have offered you a joint and talked about comedy. You see, Mr. Armisen, I assumed you were too cool for me and I thought my detached comment would somehow provide dual acknowledgement while maintaining a safe distance from connection and community. In that way, you represent quite a few denizens of our fair city I have tossed off in similar misdirected ways; leaving with a lousy comment expecting a follow up when it could have been a positive experience. I hope you all except my apology..
While I`ve held a craftsmanship job for over 40 years, one across as this one has never ended up in my shop. A Clark Nova with the Tombstone Keys. I mean, I`ve held for repairment and optimization a lot of classic typewriters, have found traces of what other repairmen have done to the machine, but this one in particular came with the most obvious of problems. When used. The P typebar was changed, maybe intentionally or not, with a B typebar. Good Goodness, why would someone do something like that. So I imagined all the words that couldn`t be written while pounding on these precious machinery artifacts. For instance: "Pull" would become "Bull". "Pun", "Bun", "Pacemaker", "Bacemaker". So I changed the typebar to a old fix I had of the same brand and type and model and year, and placed in it the B it should have in it. The owner came in, and was kinda surprised about it, but he told me I could have done better. I told him those machines are Diabolical, that they start talking to you while you write, and dictate you what you must write. He laughed wholeheartedly, and told me I should get a real job. In the way out, I told him: "Don`t let the door hit your ass in your way out, there are more than a 1080 combinations these machines quirks come with, revise all your letterers". He looked back at me with a haunted face. I got payed, took some pictures, and got that out of the way. I`d like to see that guys clever asses ways while working on one of these.
Dear my boyfriend's boss,
You may realize this is my boyfriend's dream job, but you can't promise a bonus at 6 mo. if he accomplishes his goals and then never set those goals and repeatedly say, "No bonus till I set your goals." And then, knowing how little he makes, you can't give him shit for how crappy his health insurance is, how he can't afford to buy a new car, and all other sorts of money issues. This may be your hobby job, but it sure as hell ain't his.
To to the fucker who went around SE Portland last Tuesday night smashing in car windshields for fun, remember this your karma will get you! What was the point of your little rampage? You didn't steal anything, in fact you didn't even do a very god job of smashing the windshield. I had to finish your work for you. Next time you decide to commit pointless (and expensive) acts of vandalism don't take out your rage on a 20 year old car, the parts are expensive and hard to replace, you little piece of shit. Next time you feel the urge to destroy something why don't you go pound your head against a wall for a little while, i'd be much happier that way! And don't come around my neighborhood anymore i will be waiting with a baseball bat!
"Anarchist," cut it out. You've got the stink of the leisure class all over you. How do I know? Because your clothes are too perfectly assembled, you have baby-soft hands, and you have the kind of lifestyle that makes growing a head of nicely cared-for dreadlocks possible. That is: the life of the upper class.
And that's who you'll be: some kind of psuedo-countercultural "insider" preying on the poor saps who ACTUALLY DON'T HAVE ANYTHING until you eventually get older and move into an expensive house in a trendy neighborhood. Hell, you probably already live there. I mean, you ARE the first wave gentrifiers of any neighborhood, and you DO seem to be crawling all over Alberta & Mississippi...
So stop pretending to fight the problem by opening up vegan anarchist cafes and getting your kicks by dumpster diving even though you've never experienced starvation (the real reason people eat out of dumpsters). Oh, and get off the foodstamps, you leech. If you were a real poor person, you'd find those things as humiliating as we do—rather than a way to "rip off" the "empire."
One more thing: if you call NE "the hood" one more time, I'll beat the holy living shit out of you and see how well you deal with being ugly for a few months.
Hey lady that hopped on the 9 this morning, screamed at the driver to honk at the bus that had passed you, moaned that "Tri-Met" had made you late for work the last two days, proceeded to call the driver a "fucking cunt" and then complained that the bus you got on (the number 9) wasn't going the way you were going - well, where to begin? I know you think that everything is someone else's fault, but take a little personal responsibility. Get up a few minutes earlier and allow yourself a bit more time. Don't scream at people. Don't call people fucking cunts, not at 8 in the morning. Don't blame other people for YOU being late. Besides, you look like you could use the walk fatty.
Ah, Summertime. This long-beloved season in Portland ushers in the collective sussurus of bicycles being dusted off and the crisp aluminum snap of tall boys unsealed. And every single effing day, it seems, I spot a different mustachioed, ironic-chest-piece-tattooed, tank-top-and-wayfarer-wearing, skinny-jean-and-TOMS nut-hugging twerp sulking by the bus stop waiting for the 20 with his or her ARM IN A FUCKING SLING!!!! Let me guess: you fell off your fucking fixie, you twat. Big surprise…
Fixed riders, watch out: next time I see you work a wedgie out of your ass trying to slow down, I'm gonna kick you over while you trackstand at the light. Then you'll really have a good story to tell your friends at Holocene later tonight.
Dear House Flippers... I HATE YOU. My boyfriend and I have been looking for a house for over a year now. It is already a very frustrating process trying to get an offer accepted with all the other buyers out there, realtors being shady, and banks taking their sweet time... But you.... You took the one house that we really really loved. It was perfect, not a short sale or bank owned! It had been posted for two days. We put in the highest offer our budget could afford. Then you came in with cash. CASH?! I know you'll slap on some paint and rip up the carpet and sell it for 30K more, but I could see our life there. Thank you for ruining my dreams. You made me cry, asshole.
This goes to all my crotchedy neighbors who freak out when I pick up after my dog and throw the shit bag in the trash can sitting outside: You do realize that's what the trash is for, right? You know it's already full of stinky shit and that it's on its way to a bigger pile of stinking shit, right? You know that I could just be a jerk and let my dog leave her stinking piles of shit on your lawn, right? I could easily get away with it; you aren't always home to see us, and sometimes we walk after dark. But because I am considerate, and because I feel like being nice and saving you from inadvertently stepping on poop, I pick up after my dog instead. You owe me a thank you for being polite, you dumb f*ck. Because if you insist on giving me a hard time for doing my duty and dropping the waste in the nearest waste bin, I'm going to let her give you the present you deserve.
This is for the wanna be 'hep cat' daddy at the Woodstock library on Tuesday the 23rd. A self absorbed douche with $350 glasses frames, $140 boat shoes, $95 'broken in' jeans and badly sculpted facial pubes who planted himself squarely in the middle of the DVD section and proceeded to slloooowwwlly scan the titles and pull out every third one. Woodstock is one branch that has the room to spine out the DVD's. You can see the titles! Do you really need to pull out Blade II to check it out? No, it's not a remake of the Three Musketeers. Hell you were old enough to have seen the one with Oliver Reed from '74 in the theatre. But what was really crass was when asked to move over a bit you looked me up and down and declared " I'm not finished yet". Well peel them peepers pops cause we've all got places to be. You wouldn't even turn your body at an angle to allow someone else to view the PUBLIC LIBRARY'S selection. Don't worry I won't be after that Tarkovsky film on the Criterion Collection label cause I've already seen it dickweed.
Dear recent I, Anon authors, is your life really that mundane and trite that you need to spew such angry rhetoric about the most boring uneventful shit to hit the area since Mt. St. Helens erupted? In the past several months the blue ribbon complain-fest winners have done nothing but poo-poo vandalism, petty theft and general delinquency. No matter how much you spew about your disapproval of local misdemeanors, it's not going to stop. It reads as if you're just one of millions of passive-aggressive Northwest cowards hiding behind a newspaper. Grow the gonads to say what you mean to who REALLY needs to hear it or go forever unheard except by those looking for a genuine laugh in rant format and finding the blather of half-liberal, incredibly irritable hypochondriacs.
dude,girl,youre such a drag.Somehow youve got in my pdf. boxie thing some years ago by some ip searcher and connecter men,whats that all about.Like,u know,for a while I didnt mind it,but ive told u to stop it.Weve meet in a recuperation from tree huggers addiction group,then we like never spoke again for like 15 years.Man,and like,you know,now I see you at my naked yoga clases,at my skip a stone in the river competitions, & at like up in my tree or something.Whats that all about men,what a drag.You read my pdfs which I write and send to my publishing company,fuckin` dickheads,and they send me back the corrections or what ever man,you access to that some how.You came to my skip a stone in the river competition like you didnt care,and started talking to all of my friends, & fucking things up, and like wearing a wig, and talking to me like am a mouse. You must me so high, am mortal men,I dont have 9 lives like your soul men lady.Its like fucking fightclub, but u gotthewrong guy,that aint me,I grew up in d streets,get outta my activities I do with my friends.If my publishing company "finds out"u have been reading our things, they will like blow up,its a fucking drop of blood in infested shark waters,its a big fucking money wielding Company and all that scary branded shit,realize and do what u have to do before the publishing company goes bat-crazy over this.All of the above and more has happen.Erm,am gonna watch"Lost in Space"again, am super nice n cool, but dont abuse girl,bye.
Dear Dumbshit Florida Bitch,
Thank you for nearly annihilating me as I crossed West Burnside onto 18th on my bike. I understand that your phone call was important. That is why I nearly lost my life for you. I apologize for flipping you off and calling you bad names, although you were too busy gabbing on the phone to even acknowledge me or my profane proclamations for road safety. I'm sorry that even when I caught up to your silver SUV at a stoplight, you were still on the phone. But I'm not sorry that I got your license plate number. Your car is registered in the state of Florida. Thanks to this magical, cat-filled box of delicious we call the internet, I know many other things about you. Fortunately for you, I'm going to keep that information to myself. I'm not even going to mail you a sack of my dog's shit or hide behind the palm trees in your front yard, shouting "BOO!" every time you step outside. I'm just going to ask you to go the fuck back to Florida. If I see you on the road again, I'm throwing oranges.
If you've lost your needle it was found in my right fucking foot on fucking Tuesday night while taking out the garbage. If you would like to claim your needle it's in southeast Portland and I would love to meet you so I can return it to you you selfish, careless, dumb FUCK. I don't care if you're homeless, proper disposal of your filthy, fucking needles is not difficult, well maybe it is when you're in heroin haze, I wouldn't know but when you decide to drop a needle on the ground no less than five feet from a DUMPSTER, (which would still be the wrong place to put it) I have no sympathy for you or your disability. I'll make sure to spit on the junkies who are always shooting up on the Burnside Bridge just for you and I hope you're among them when I do. Now I have to spend the next six months getting my blood tested and be poked and prodded with more needles even though I'm STD free, have been with the same partner for over a year and have never used fucking needles. I don't deserve this and neither does my partner, you STUPID JUNKIE FUCK, I hope you overdose, seriously. On the off chance you were just a lazy diabetic who dropped an insulin needle, I hope your feet become gangrenous and have to be chopped off. FUCKER!
I'm talking about canvassers, the homeless, the fucking street kids that turn up when the weather is nice.
Stop giving them money and cigarettes! There are charities in town that will provide a bed and food with money from donations. They need the donations. The "spread the love give change" fucking furries on 6th don't.
And as far as canvassers go? That's what the Internet is for. Yes, I do have a minute for gay rights. No I don't have a minute for your "HI HOW ARE YOU" from a block down.
I was the anonymous that wrote about being nice to people a few months ago. Well fuck that I say. I'm fed up to the teeth with being harassed every time I leave my house and ear buds have ceased to work. So people of Portland, let's band together and make it pointless to canvass and beg on the street. With a loud community no I might be able to smoke a cigarette or buy a cup of coffee without ever hearing the words "you wouldn't happen to have x would you?" ever ever again.
(And of course there will be some HOW VERY DARE YOU COMMENTS. Fuck you bleeding hearts. It's not my problem if you just want someone to talk to you. That's what personals are for. See that link over there —-> CLICK IT)
I just want to say I really can't stand you. I can't stand the little "tests" that you put the staff through. Stop hiding in the back room and show them what you want them to do. I've been at this job for over a year and in that time I've been told I did a good job by you THREE times. Our customers and the staff tell me I do a good job, why can't you? What I DO hear are your opinions about my partner, my social life, my weight, my looks, my clothes, my pets, my friends, (who no longer eat here, wonder why?), my vacations, my hobbies, and everything else. None of which I discuss with you. So when I'm stressed at work because your playing favorites with the staff is a pain in the ass don't ask me if "there's something wrong in my personal life". There's nothing wrong in my personal life. the problem's you.
To the cold-hearted bitch that lives next door.
I hope you're happy you've officially become the most horrible person i know (which i thought was hard to do cause i know some real jerks) but you just took the cake. I figured that you being a cat owner yourself would know what cats are like. They're fun rambunctious little critters that bring joy to most everyone. But because my cat, in an attempt to play with you cat, slightly damaged your screen you have to be a snatch. Instead of getting to frolic through the grass and enjoy the rich kitty life, you called our landlord and forced us to keep him inside, even after we offered to pay for any damages. And then, just because he sneaks outside one time you decide that you need to take legal action and force us to get rid of the only child we'll ever have. I hope your new screen fill the void of your never ending loneliness. I hope that your cat gets hit by a car and that you will someday have to feel the loss that we have felt for our fluffy love nugget.
To those who like to yell and make hilarious
facial expressions at me while I'm turning or following the regular flow of traffic: HAHA... keep it up, makes my day to see someone raise their blood pressure over having to wait 2 extra seconds while I turn at a reasonable pace. Sorry that my vehicle is SOLID, the only thing you accomplish by deciding to lose your mind is my laughter. We like to make up nickname for these people when they flash us a grim reaper face or start contorting in weird ways while driving like an imbecile... These people have the patience of a 3 year old at sears.
We can all agree that pumping gas at a service station (my temporary profession for a couple years now) is a job at the bottom of the social pecking order. I know this because the pay is lousy, I'm treated poorly by my bosses as well as my customers, and getting a date is impossible once I tell them I'm a pump jockey.
That's why you assholes who drive up all-day long and complain about how I'M stealing your money because I'M the one raising the gas prices really get under my skin. Do you ignorant fuckers really think the profits are going into my wallet? Do you really think that I choose to charge 0.03 more a gallon just to exploit your downtown commute? Do you really think that I'm the one forcing you to drive your god damn gas hog in the first place?
If you answered yes to any of those questions, please feel free to come by and take umbrage personally. I'll listen to your rant (I do it all day anyhow!), but be prepared for the consequences. Those who can't sink any lower tend to become desperate and lash out with unforeseen circumstances.
You came into my salon, because your "regular" colorist was too busy. You wanted me to blend in that 5 inches of dirty blond into your over processed, straw like bleached blond hair. I did what you wanted - for two hours, and when we were done, you weren't happy. So, I did another technique - and, another two hours of hair therapy on you, and, even tho it did the trick, you STILL didn't like it. All the while, you boasted about your "transformation" and your "brain tumor" and your ability to feel the love from everyone. Funny, when you didn't get what you wanted, you turned into just another one of those self centered, narcissistic, Clairol bitches who wants someone else to perform magic tricks on their neglected, over processed head full of shit hair. Your "kindly loving" way of objecting to any form of payment was priceless. That new agey shit you spout taught you something... it showed me something too. It showed me that deep down, you weren't transformed, you found a new way to be a scamming BITCH... Nice for you, because you didn't pay a dime for my services, nice for me, because I never have to hear your fucking bullshit stories in that whiny drone of yours again...
To the person or persons who came onto my property last Friday and harvested all of the blueberries from my tree: that was not cool. I nurture that tree; I prune it, water it, give it my coffee grounds and talk to it, all so that my family and friends can enjoy its summer bounty in the form of fresh berries, jam or other concoctions. I know it was a fine crop, so if you had come to my door and asked for a bowl (or even two) I likely would have said “go ahead”. I’d even be OK if you’d just taken a reasonable amount without asking — after all I may be an asshole for all you know. But you did neither — instead you came in and helped yourself to pretty much every single berry on the Goddamn tree — didn’t even leave enough for the birds to have a snack. So you know what - you’re the asshole. Fuck You, and I hope you choke on them.
Honda Element on Fremont— I would like to retract the finger I threw in your direction, as well as the honking horn. I understand, upon reflection, that you made an innocent mistake. You did not understand that I was stopped in the middle of the road for a pedestrian on the crosswalk. Assuming that I was forgetting my blinker while waiting to turn left, you went around me. Luckily, you missed the pedestrian and probably felt pretty abashed. I now see that you were not the total impatient jackass I took you for, looking to get one car-length ahead by any means necessary. Clearly, I should examine my predilection for assuming the worst intentions from young men in big cars.
Sorry fellow bicyclist! I did not mean to cut you off. I was halfway through a busy interchange at Ankeny and Sandy blvd and I was admittedly more concerned with making sure that huge SUV didn't smoosh me. I'm pretty sure you saw me waving at the driver to get his attention. Why this didn't get your attention I don't know. Thanks for slowing down and not piledriving me. You yelled at me. I did cut you off. I'll still choose bike on bike over bike vs. car anyday but I am sorry. Hope the rest of your ride was dick free!
When you take your new Indian friend to an Indian buffet for lunch (which is kind of weird to begin with, especially since he says he would have preferred Thai or Mexican), it's not okay to pray loudly to Jesus, thanking him for "this community" among other things. I'm pretty sure you're narrow God didn't have anything to do with the Hindus and Sikhs and Muslims who were enjoying their lunch before you started conspicuously prostrating yourself to Jesus.
I know you're running late. I am too. Its 9am and the Hawthorne bridge is up. There is a whole congregation of people waiting for the bridge to come back down. Inching your bike up through the crowd bit by bit so you can be at the "front" of the group isn't just annoying, its rude. Especially more so when you get in front of the pack and then slow us all down because your fixed gear tops out at 14mph. So you end up pedaling a hundred times faster than what even looks possible to stay in front of me. Well.. congratulations, jackass. You won the Hawthorne Half-Bridge Race.
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