I am sorry to say that I have secretly found out that Mr. ##### is having an affair with Miss #####.
My first suspicions came when I saw them Frenching in front of her house, and then I knew for sure when they went skinny-dipping in Mr. #####'s swimming pool, giving each other hand jobs while you were taking a nap on the front porch.
Why am I telling you this now?
Because you're such a good friend.
Take care, pal.
Guys I just heard a firework.
Hey, Portland. Don't get me wrong, I don't mind working nights. And being downtown at 3am is pretty rad. I just have one little thing... Is it really too much to ask for something downtown that is open late that isn't McDonalds or a bar? But most things close at around six. The mall at 9. A few of the bars stay open until 2. But if I want a snack at 3, I'm stuck with the 7-11 or driving to one of the fast food places on Burnside.
To the bitch at Goodwill on Friday. You know people shop there because they don't have any money, or they're looking for a way to save. When you were in there watching the new racks like a vulture and grabbing anything nice almost out of the hands of people shopping, there was also a mother with a down's syndrome kid and a couple other people who were obviously poor.
But you have to make your buck reselling that shit for 3 times what you paid for it at your shitty little store in Ashland. Not only are you ripping off your customers but you're a despicable piece of shit. I wasn't kidding when I called you disgusting. And guess what? When I left the store people were smiling at me and wished me a good afternoon. They weren't smiling at you.
I hope I never see you in that Goodwill again. I will call your stupid bitch ass out over and over and humiliate you just like I did this time. I loved seeing your face go bright red.
Another Portland night and drunk, drunk, drunk. What's new, Portland? I used to love the feeling of being drunk while walking down your streets, it just seemed to fit. It was so perfect, knowing that others had been here before me, likely more drunk and peered into the same windows surrounded by brick. Now, it's different and the mood has changed. It ain't fun no more, it's intolerable. I drive 'round and around, looking through my road-scratched window of my '89 Volvo sedan. I love my car bitches, don't think otherwise. But I drive around, looking at how my Portland has changed. It used to be a dirty down, dingy and seedy with corners you'd only turn with your doors looked. Dealers literally stopping you as you drove down the street, standing in front of your car to leave you no choice. Hookers on Alberta and MLK, thrift stores with actual deals, bars that felt like you stepped back in time 50 years... all gone now. There ain't nothing to drink for, except for the sake of drinking itself and how truly sad that fact is. This new Portland, I don't know and don't take kindly to... the old one, I miss dearly. Time for another drink and a smoke, for you fuckers wouldn't know...
The Occupy movement started and you went off the deep end. You met another woman there, you fucked, you fell in love, she got pregnant, now you are married? You have lost friends, clients, and many people's respect. Woo-hoo, I am so happy the movement brought so many like minded people together. You talk about changing the world, but maybe you should start with yourself. Does she know that you haven't paid child support since February, I won't even list all the other shit that you did and do. I hope she can occupy the gaping hole in your soul.
Hey retail and service workers: I see what you did there. You had a zit that you just had to squeeze before i walked in. You probably thought no one would notice the now bright red blemish but I see your battle scars.
I'd rather see a "ripe-n-ready" than a blown out bump oozing a clear bead of liquid any day.
Stop it, it's fucking gross!!!!!
i am not your blow-up doll. My body is not here for you to put your penis into everytime that you are horny, or bored, or stressed. I am a living human woman, who doesn't want to allow her body to be used as a warm, fap receptacle for your cock, whether i want it or not.
No, technically, you don't rape me. You just push & push & pressure & pressure, until, if I want to be able to breathe, to sleep, to eat, without you trying to get it on with me, I just have to give in. Shut down & let you use my body.
I know that I have my issues. I know that I should have established boundaries, long ago. But, after 4 years, I don't know how to make you hear me, anymore. We have had this conversation so many times. And yet still, you are having sex with me in my sleep. I can't finish eating without you trying to have sex with me. You say that i should be flattered. You also ask if I think that you are a sex addict. No, I don't think that you are a sex addict. I think that you are incredibly disrespectful of my sexuality!
Are there any other women out there that have this problem? There must be!
I get that you just got that motorcycle, I get that you're worried about it, I get that it would totally suck if it were damaged. Of course you're stressed. The thing is, that's what insurance is for.
My middle-aged mom accidentally knocked your motorcycle over while she was backing up. She immediately got out of the car, contrite and prepared to resolve the issue. You however, were an absolute asshole. When she asked if everything was ok, you curtly said "No," making a production out of trying to start it. When she offered her insurance information, you were too busy buffing potential scuffs (?!) out of your fucking motorcycle to take it from her hand. Then you wanted to call the cops? What the fuck? You wouldn't even give her your information.
You'd think with your new bike and your super trendy "tough guy" tattoos you're trying to be a man. So why were you being such a fucking baby? Nut up, take it to a shop, and any damages will be paid for. Instead you sulked and attempted to bully my fifty one year old mom. Like a little bitch.
I have a choice to make in the not too distant future. I can either move to Austin, Texas or to Portland, Oregon. Austin has nicer weather but awful traffic. Portland has nicer people but it is further away from my family. Austin is growing too fast but jobs are easier to get there. Portland struggles with providing decent wages but you don't need a car. Austin has suntanned goddesses. Portland has adorable earth mamas. What should I do?
Im sorry. I cannot deal with all of your issues right now. Clearly, I have enough of my own. I cannot help you through your struggles with intoxicants either. Clearly, I have enough struggles of my own in that regard as well. But ultimately, its just pointless. You don't seem to want to help yourself! Lets just say for one moment, hypothetically, I was in a position to help you find whatever mystical state of being it is you seek. You dont seem to want it bad enough! Talk is cheap. You have ALOT of talents, and you have great ideas, but they are so seldomly seen to fruition. There is nothing wrong with the gift of gab, but it seems anymore thats the only gift you have. Yes, you tell a great story. You should write a book or a movie. You have some really strange talent of persuasion when you want.And I will agree to some extent that being a storyteller is harmless. But in art and in morality there is always a line and it has to be drawn somewhere. I dont agree with where you draw yours. I doubt I ever will. I dunno what it is you have been trying to get from me these past spent lengths... But Its become a toxic wasteland if you ask me. I see you, I feel upset. For numerous reasons. Mostly, I feel used. You can say otherwise til your blue. But TALK IS CHEAP. I ask you to prove me wrong, but you prove me right without fail. Its a waste of my breath anymore. I cannot seem to find a happy feeling in whatever kind of relationship it is you want with me. And anymore,you cant seem to come around unless your obliterated. And you know how toxic our relationship is when your in that state or close to it... Its a guaranteed disaster waiting to happen, and yet you repetitively put me in that position. And I don't wanna hear you'll pay me back. You never really do. I know you have made some attempts. but it doesnt ever feel like were even. I cannot afford my own vices ! And as much as you hate to hear it said, you have help whenever you need through your family. You know I dont. How can you feel good about asking me for anything? Especially after all I gave to you, only to have it go mostly unnoticed or appreciated. I think its best that you do stay to your own path. Its clear your not really serious about changing.... Its just more of your really persuasive and convincing talk.for the millionth time: Prove me wrong!
Hey, dude, the one dressed in all-black hogging the listening station at Little Axe: stop dancing around me when I've finally got access to the damned thing. In the time that it took you to get your ass up to look around for MORE records, the seat was hot and sweaty. Even then, you came back for more! You stood around me, trying my patience and distracting me from the task at hand. All I could think about was you, standing, staring, hopping around on your feet to signify your impatience… What was that shit you had in your hands, anyway? Eminem? Well, of course I began whistling toneless tunes as I calmly, slowly, slipped a record back into its sleeve, ensuring perfection. I looked at you and whistled some more. Then slowly, carefully, pulled out another record. I always though that fellow record listeners in local shops have a common understanding; but you, sir, have changed that perspective. Take your poor ass taste in music to Everyday Music.
I feel like an asshole, an American asshole. Dear neighbor across the street, you've bugged the shit out of me for years now. And yes, you're from Mexico, but that's not why I dislike you. I dislike you because you litter and you seem to find it necessary to wash your driveway and sidewalk with a water hose, let your toddler run in the middle of the street, play your music so damn loud that my windows rattle and instead of spending hours on your yard, you spend it on your truck. You're a nuisance, race aside and I don't like you. So, when I saw you and your amigo drinking in the front seat of your truck on an evening last week, bass-ladened music infiltrating my peace, I decided that enough was enough. I called the police and said you were drunk driving, even though you weren't, and I threw in that I thought you were smoking pot, too. I wanted revenge, I wanted to act out and calling the authorities was the only way I knew how. What I didn't know is that they would handcuff you and sit you on the curb for TWO HOURS. The flashing of police lights filled the street and your humiliated looks were too much for me to bear. I didn't want to publicly humiliate you, I only wanted you to stop with the incessant noise-making. I'll never forget that look on your face, with your glazed eyes looking all ashamed and embarrassed. I'm an asshole and I know it. I doubt you'll even read this, but I just want to say I'm sorry.
To the boy in black on Burnside wearing sunglasses and a hat: Thank you. You handed me two flowers while I was walking down the street. They were small enough to fit in my palm. You said something about carrying them for four blocks, waiting to give them to someone. For some reason you gave them to me. I think it might have just been because you were sick of carrying them around. It doesn't matter. Thank you. I was leaving work. I was tired. I was stuck in a quicksand of self-pity, meditating on a broken heart and pondering my own unloveability, feeling sad and stupid. They were just two little petunias, nothing special: one a coral color and the other lavender. In the sun their petals had a subtle iridescence, like they were underlaid with silver. They were common. They were beautiful. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.
You're lied to yourself, as well as everyone around you. Be who you really, for fuck's sake. You declare that you're "happy", but your dishonesty is killing your soul. You have so many secrets, ones you can't even tell yourself. Open the windows and say what you really want. Say it out loud so we can hear you.You're gay. Your family would not be surprised to hear you say that, and any woman who has been intimate with you would nod in remembrance and agreement. It was hard trying to be your lover, before I finally figured out that I could never be what you want sexually; why did you let me go on trying for months? I would have loved having you as a friend, a gay man who shares the interests that you and I do. I do miss that friendship. All I can say to you is what I said all along: Say what you really want, and be who you really are. And send my fucking books back.
It's another magnificent summer in the Pacific NW. We've endured another looong, gray, wet winter and it's time to embark on our summer camping adventures at one of the countless sites available within a short hop of the Portland metro area. The trees are lush and green, the streams, rivers and lakes are cool and inviting, and birds and other wildlife critters are chirping with delight at the abundance of summer folly that surrounds us all...but wait....something stinks in camping paradise....
Oh, it's you, you fucking selfish MO-RONS who think that OUR land is your bedroom in your mom's fucking basement! You've left shitheaps of shit, fecal-spattered toilet paper, garbage, cans, bottles, broken glass, greasy McDonalds' containers, burned-out cigarette butts and every other gross piece of trash imaginable strewn about the campsite like it's your own personal landfill!
My anger boils and my stomach churns when I arrive at an otherwise pristine campsite for a peaceful woodsy retreat and I'm greeted by the sight of a bunch of unwanted "presents" from all of you litterbug fucks who feel it's your god-given right to fuck things up by flagrantly disregarding the most basic of camping tenents: "Pack it in, pack it the FUCK OUT!!!" This means you, you trash-for-brains fucksticks!!!
So please, I am FUCKING BEGGING YOU...next time you head out on your own camping escapades, have fun, be safe and be responsible by picking up your own shit! Leave the campsite the way you'd expect to find it when you arrive for some peace and solitude in our majestic forestlands. If you can't do this one simple thing, may your tent smell like beer farts and maggots invade your dreams, shitheads!!!
All this time, I felt like the unfaithful one. And you let me. When it was, in fact, you who was unfaithful. You let me think I was messed up in the head. If I wasn't then, I am now. I want to love you. I want to trust you. Please, make it easier for me to do so. You hurt me. I know I have hurt you before. But I have always been honest and faithful. I wish you could return the favor. You were once my everything. My best friend. We have had so many amazing times together. Now I feel like I hardly know you. What you like, what your goals are. Now we just share a bed and silently wish things were different. Please... if you find my husband... tell him I need him. I need my best friend. I could really use him right now....
I was walking home from a long day at work, headphones in, just doing my thing. I stepped up to a crosswalk as you were pulling up to the stop—not a busy street either, in fact you were the only car. You were doing that rolly-stop thing so I waited a few seconds to see if you were going to actually stop before stepping in front of your car, because the last thing I needed after a long day of making coffee for asshole tourists was to be turned into a human pancake. You stopped, so I walked in front of you. And you sounded your fucking car horn loud and repeatedly to let me know how pissed off you were that I inconvenienced you for—oh my god, it must have been a whole seven seconds—followed by you flipping me the bird and yelling inside your car. Damn straight I flipped you off in return. So you rolled down your window to let me know how fucking crazy you were. I ignored you and walked off, because I have better things to do than to argue with some asshole about what was my legal right-of-way. But no, that wasn't enough for you. You followed me—for two fucking blocks—screaming at me with your windows rolled down, and the icing on top of your fucking crazy cake was when you started launching shit from your window (you have terrible aim, bee-tee-dubs). All right, I get it, you are balls-to-the-wall crazy! YOU WIN! Enjoy the satisfaction of knowing that you are entirely capable of throwing temper tantrums (and soda sups and whatever the fuck that plastic thing was) from the safety of a moving 2-ton steel cage, and eat a dick while you're at it.
Single white female seeking typical Portland man to coddle. You must: Be unwilling to work but have a masters degree in art, in a band, have facial, neck, and/or hand tattoos, live in parents' basement, get drunk every night on cheap beer, have mommy issues, have no driver license, hate women, blame society for your problems.
After a camping weekend at Timothy Lake nearby Mt. Hood, my girlfriend (her car) and I decided to walk the lakeside trail -nothing too strenuous. I/We were appalled by the amount of pure garbage found around the lake. And I'm not just talking about unemployed hippies! I'm speaking of people who can't preserve nature and pick up after themselves. Anyway, after that depressing reality check we were saved by an awesome spotting of a yellow lab riding on the back of a motorcycle in Sandy, OR (the drive home). The next day, we found a softball size parking lot bummer-of-a-dent on the rear quarter panel. That's property damage, you 4x4 fuck-face! Yeah, you in the giant yellow Toyota FJ Cruiser that conspicuously parked backwards a few feet away. We know it was you! Or some other douche-y douche-bag. The roads into the Timothy Lake campgrounds allow silver Honda Civic cars to drive safely. Congratulations on the purchase of your ultimate extreme driving machine for maneuvering pea-gravel roads. It's like hiring Eddie Van Halen for a ringer-solo at your kid's elementary recital. The moral of this story is that: A. Pops-A-Dent (as seen on T.V.) really fucking works some magic on dents in your car's sheet metal. I'm not even kidding about that! Not even a fucking little bit -you prick that doesn't leave a note after bashing a big fucking dent in someone's car! And B. People are bitch!
You work at Fada, most likely as an instructor. I see you from time to time and I think you are oh so dreamy. You're a bit older but nothing ancient. Like a hot 40 year old. You have this sexy, punk rock, Denis Leary hotness to you that is insane! If only I had the balls to get your number and to find out if you liked younger chicks.
I know I need to lose a few pounds. I'm riding in the overweight category right now and I definitely need some exercise. It's been kind of a rough year health wise, which is why I was in there, so I assumed you'd understand why I hadn't done a lot of exercise recently.
My GP has never mentioned it, neither has any other doctor I've seen. My blood pressure is good, my temp is good and my pulse is good. There's been no hint of going on a health kick either and what little exercise I get seems pretty good.
So there really wasn't any need for you to say to the doctor in the next room "these are so and so's results, you know the *chubby* girl in the exam room?"
You were a total patronizing bitch the whole time I was in there. You seemed to not get it when I said, over and over again, YOU WORK WITH A LOT OF CHILDREN? By time I left I was murderous. So thanks asshole, like I wasn't self conscious enough about my weight. You and your hairy lip should probably retire forever. God help you if you have grandkids you spindly harpy.
Portland, you sad sack of shit. Get out of your adolescence, stop trying to be so edgy and stop pretending like the problems in your life aren't about how awful you are. Wearing the same spikes as you did when you were 16 (20 years ago) does not make you a rebel. It makes you a throw back, the same as someone wearing stonewashed jeans with a leftover obsession with Jordan Knight. You like like a middle aged man wearing his letterman jacket.
We get it. Once upon a time you thought you were a badass. But the longer you do it, the older you are, the more you have to show on the outside you're a badass, the more we know you're just a sad little man with nothing else to do.
And honestly, where the fuck are the rest of you hanging out? Every day it's some weird rant about people that I didn't even know existed. People with hygiene problems? Stupid and immature men? Angry smokers? Constantly hung over? Weird jobs with ninja in the title? Where are these people? Because my social group and job aren't even close to being that fucking lame.
There's something wrong with you. Yes. You. Not everyone else. It's all about you. Even fucking Blair Warner could tell you that. Time to move on! Or, you know, you could remain stuck forever like laughable little men in edgy outfits. Up to you.
Single professional male seeking average Portland woman to make life a living hell.
Must have: tattoos, piercings, multiple coffee shop jobs, no driver license, large bar tabs, self righteous attitude, hatred of men, poor hygiene.
Hey mercury, thanks a bunch. Because of the mistake in your listings I was stoked all week to see psychic paramount freak out and then went to see the show to find out they played YESTERDAY. Sure I should of looked the thing up, but I trust you and you betrayed that trust, so now I hate you, for today. You and your snarky attitudes can go to hell. Keep up the good work.
[Editor's Note: Crap. You had to go to the one event we got wrong? Sorry! We realized our mistake in the paper, and corrected it online... but that doesn't help you much, does it? Go ahead and hate us for today, we deserve it.]
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