There was a guy trying to sell a few items (lighters, pens, his shoes, etc) on the corner of 52nd/SE Powell. The guy said he needed money to buy food, (he wanted tacos from Taco Bell, which is right there). I didn't have cash but I told him I'd run through the drive thru for him. As I'm waving the guy over to give him his food, cops arrive. Someone called the cops on him! Cop said the complaint was the man was disrupting traffic and harassing drivers. This kind of broke my heart. I tried to explain to the cops my participation in the matter - I was dismissed. My advice, specifically for this part of town, just buy the dude some freakin' food and don't call the cops. The guy was down on his luck, possibly homeless. He was not harassing anyone. He was not disrupting traffic. If you don't want to give him cash - LET HIM HAVE TACOS!!
Watch less porn and quit visiting bikeportland. More and more, I am troubled by the effects porn might have on me and the actors availing themselves to me. But I like porn, so completely giving it up is out of the question. Now, bikeportland, I got to stop. I bike, a lot, everyday, in SE. Here goes... It is a stop sign it means stop, there I said it. Those people are pedestrians entering a cross walk, stop for them. If you ride through a stop sign and get hit by a bike or car, please do not blame the other party or the city for your poor decision making. If you ride your bike into a legally parked bus, please do not blame the bus. If you get a ticket for running a stop sign in Ladds, your first response should not be "but cars kill people." None of the above (excluding the porn stuff) truisms seems obvious to the staff at or general audience of bikeportland. Therefore, I resolve to quit them.
To the female, mood-disturbed, toxic-personality, shit head abuser of Multco Library books (to wit, Dr. Amen's, Unleash the Power of the Female Brain UPC code 3-1168-11069-1332): you razor-bladed over 31 pages, several sections, out of our, MY book, probably sometime in Oct, Nov, Dec this year. May your razor blade slip, badly; may you NEVER get a personality, NEVER get a healthy brain, NEVER have friends, NEVER feel good, NEVER enjoy your work, NEVER have a decent night's sleep, ever, you waste-of-space, stupid, ghastly, selfish bitch.
I was ready to fight the possum I thought was banging on my house at 3 am, but then I looked out and saw human bodies standing on my porch...thumping against the front door. I turned on all the house lights and porch lights, so you pulled up your pants and just sat there. I had to come outside and ask you to leave while you explained your confusion. I got to stand in your smoke so that after I finally went back to bed I smelt like an old dirty bar. Shame on you -having drunk public sex with a near stranger, you classless jerk.
WTF is with these flaky fucking people? I am so tired of trying to get together with people, having them flake on me, then later tell me "I don't usually do this, but..." You know, no body that is a flake thinks of themselves as a flake, but you all are a bunch of fucking flakes. Really, why bother sending me a message AFTER you flake, it takes fucking ten seconds to send a message before and say you aren't going to make it. Whatever
PUT DOWN YOUR FUCKING CELLPHONE AND DRIVE! this is to the lady who almost ran me over outside whole foods and everyone else who texts while driving. When you’re driving NOTHING is more important than operating that vehicle as safely as possible.
Every conversation can wait. people take driving for granted and it’s fucking disgusting.
I get it. Your car is tiny and handles like a go-kart; you're also paying by the minute to get somewhere. Neither of these facts exempts you from driving as though we don't have common-sense traffic laws. Going 40 down MLK while weaving through traffic makes me wish bodily harm upon you. Those cars are fucking invisible to a normal blind-spot, and darting around people is going to catch up with you someday. Repent, ye sinners and see yourselves for the asshole drivers you are.
1. Always use your turn signal. This fucking rule is simply just to protect the body of the innocent. Makes complete fucking sense right?
2. DON’T EVER USE MY FUCKING TOOTHBRUSH! Why? Because it’s MY fucking toothbrush, and it’s not your fucking toothbrush. Just because I brush my teeth in the shower doesn’t give you the right to use it without asking, and not allowing me to defend my toothbrush before battle. You do not get to fucking use it. I wash my whole body in the shower which includes my teeth, so just because it’s in there, and yours is by the sink, doesn’t give you the right to exit the bathroom with “baby I used your toothbrush” spewing from your lips as if it was going to be fine because we romantically kiss. IT’S NOT THE FUCKING SAME!
I get it, with kissing we are absolutely balls deep in each others DNA. I under-fucking-stand that. However, we’re not licking each others teeth when we kiss. Using someone’s toothbrush is exactly the same as chewing on someone’s used dental floss when they’re done. And that’s really fucking gross to me!
You bought the very last 15 or so tonight. I watched as you cleaned out the whole set while I waited for my turn. You didn't leave one. I looked you up and down and thought that you probably got them all for yourself as you didn't seem to be anyone who had anyone to give them too or would have anyone to love.
That's cool. As I was behind you later when you were looking to buy up the rest of the Epsom salts, I reached into your cart and grabbed as many candy canes as I could. I left you with 4 i think. I only wanted two for my nephews, the others got deposited behind some potato chips. You old grabby fucking grabbers. Have some fucking manners. You are lucky i didn't follow your fat ass out to your towncar and punch you in your puss.
Merry Xmas asswipe
I was at Fred Meyer on a Sunday night. I was roaming through the aisles trying to find body wash and seemed to be blankly staring with no results. I did, however, notice an older gentlemen, quite tan for the time of year, that kept appearing in each aisle I was in. I didn't think much of it until I noticed him yet again in the make-up aisle. I made eye contact and glanced away. I shot another look to see if he was still there. He sure was. But this time, he was facing away from me- feet spread like he was getting his dick sucked at summer camp. His shirt was raised halfway up his back and his hands were placed awkwardly on his ribs pretending they were hips. And there it was in all its glory. A fucking g-string tan line that was so clearly worn so high up it was like a fucking 1980s workout video. I looked away, mouth agape. I laughed. And stopped. And laughed again. I looked back and he turned around, dropped his shirt and vanished from the aisle. WHY WOULD YOU DO THAT?
I saw the rarest of rare police acts this morning near Reed College: a motor cycle cop pulling over a cyclist that blew through a stop sign.
Happy Christmas, bitches.
Hello! I'll be your server today. Before you order, let's have a quick refresher course in etiquette. The only correct way to ask for something is "May I please have- ?" The only correct ways to respond when offered something are "Yes, please" or "No, thank you". All other ways are RUDE. Refrain from any hand gestures, grimaces, or explanations when declining. I don't mind your children but keep them in place when I have a tray of hot food and tip appropriately. Their kid meal costs a third of your meal with no liquor up sale and three times the clean up, plus my other tables are slightly rattled by the disturbance. An extra couple bucks, while little in the grand scheme, makes it a much better experience for the person serving you. What it costs you to make your server's day? Usually just those three words- "please", "thank you", and an extra 2 bucks on the table. Do it.
So you're finally old enough to play in bars when it's nighttime, but you only allowed for interactions prearranged through social networking services? Don't worry, us strangers are here to help. You see, you and your girlfriend may not have a turn all to yourselves because pool tables in a bar work on a system of merit, a concept many of you pudgy millennial snowflakes seem to have yet encountered. Said system works like this: The person who won the last game keeps playing, so a good player may hold the table for any number of games. Anyone may challenge this victor by joining a queue listed as names on a chalkboard or marked with sets of quarters on the table (Please note: DO NOT put quarters on top of the table's rail; quarters belong stacked on the felt under the bank over the ball-drop lever), though one cannot be in this queue while concurrently playing. Simple, right? There's more to it, of course, but if you encounter an issue beyond these basics, just ask, because there are a lot of things we've figured out long before you got here and these enduring guidelines prevent someone from having to break that pouty little foot of yours if you keep stomping it.
I watched from behind as you and I were in the customer service line. You tried every angle to get a raincheck for something they currently had in stock for sale.
You little scammer with your smug face and attitude. Fuck you! You took more time than a cracked out lottery player to in turn, waste my own time in trying some bullshit out on a well seasoned employee. You got shut down and basically shamed and that was perfect as you were also acting like a full on asshole.
More shame on you, you pig. Glad you got fully shut down at the hardest place to get it. Haw fuckin haw! Fred's shut your ass down!!,!
I’m sort of new to Portland (you know, like nearly everyone else here). It’s a spread out place with so much to do, but a bit confusing for newcomers—which is why I was happy to come across the Mercury. You guys do such a great job showcasing festivals, music events; you help me decide which movie to see next and which beers to try out. The style, edginess, of the Mercury is, no doubt, a major influence to thousands of Porlanders. It’s sort of the social manual for living in this town! However, it’s this journalistic leadership that makes me dumbfounded—no, pissed off!—whenever I come across those horrifically manipulative tobacco ads in your publication. Really, do you need tobacco’s money that much that you’ll look the other way while enticing impressionable (gullible) people to roll their own Bugler cancer delivery vehicles, or get them to feel healthier that they’re inhaling organic tobacco instead of Salem menthol?
What perpetrates the biggest marketing con of all time—one that kills nearly one-half million people each fucking year—are not just the tobacco industry marketing professionals and lobbyists (if there’s a hell, they’ll be eviscerated there), but niche publications that advise their readers of what’s hip and stylish. Please, be the adult here! Save your soul, Mercury. End your duplicity with the tobacco peddlers!
Here's how to separate your clothing store/restaurant/ice cream parlor from -all- the other joints in Portland. Call yourself some short noun/s or verb, maximum three words. So customers remember where they are, make that name the only decoration in the place, in tall, bold, block, serif or sans serif print, whatever font tells your story best. Remember, white walls, wooden everything else, including service. Or if you're not feeling like clever minimalism, install anachronistic signage, posters and objects from [culture/time period/s] in every available corner, to lend your place the autheniticity and cheer your food, service and/or products may be lacking. If you take this option, remember that knowing anything about the culture, language or food you're selling is not a prerequisite, people don't know the difference; that's really all they need to pay your inflated prices.
I was watching jools holland last week(rerun) and I've decided that Arcade fire needs to die a fiery death. There's like 10 members and you can hear maybe 4 instruments at anytime. They act all excited playing the simplist shit imaginable. Worst band around. Why would you have unnecessary members when you'd make more money with less? Fucking dumb
FUCK Arcade fire. if you lke them, eat a dick
A friend told me she spent a day in Portland putting on a fake English accent and was treated so much better by average, everyday people that I had to try it. I did my best South African accent. It must have been pretty good because my experience was almost unbelievable. I started out walking to different shops on NW 23rd and was instantly welcomed by shop owners, cashiers, waiters and whoever else works in the service industry. A bartender actually bought me a round and said "welcome to the states." Later, I ordered a beer at a horrible bar called Scooter's. This really beautiful, young blond girl just slid right up to me and gave me her number. She actually said, "you had me at your accent." I couldn't fucking believe it. It was so ridiculous! It's just pathetic how shallow people can be. I recommend to anyone to give it a try. It's just weird.
I work at a walk-in clinic that caters to a colorful set of characters. It's not unusual to meet a poodle-carrying, bling-wearing baby boomer, and five minutes later, a local homeless addict who can't afford antibiotics to cure an abscess that might kill him/her if untreated. So when an early thirties-ish, anonymous dude with the drip stops in, I am not phased in the least. What does, however, phase me is when that dude with the drip is given the choice of exposing either side of his buttocks in order to receive an STD curing, and ultimately life-saving, injection only to show me his "concealed" glock, 9mm, or whatever -the- fuck, stupid-ass hand gun he is 'packing'. Why not expose the other side, and keep your hand gun concealed? Is it possibly because he is a tool? I guess I answered my own question. Yo dude, you are a tool!
To the obnoxious trio of suburban moms and their 2-3 kids each on the Blue Line Friday night- the Max is NOT a jungle gym. I take the train every day and cringe every time a gaggle of WASPs and their brood get on at Washington Park, because I know you aren’t taking this shit because you have to. It’s an adventure! There’s a tunnel! Jimmy likes trains! Yay! But guess what? The handles aren’t monkey bars, the seats aren’t trampolines, the aisles aren’t your playground. So ladies, please take three seconds in between taking selfies for Facebook (#zoolights) to tell the Future Assholes of America that they need to be respectful in public places. That there are other people in the world who use the Max as their only form of transportation, not just as a substitute for the Small World ride at Disneyland. So do us all a favor and #drivenexttime.
Yes, you look cool and hip in all black, with your beard, and beanie. Please, however, have just a tiny bit of consideration for your fellow riders. No lights after dark, no audible signal at all when passing (hell, I'd be happier with "I'ma pass you, fuckwit!" than nothing at all), and your bike so quite it's almost impossible to hear you are there until you are up my ass...It gets old, man. I know it makes you seem less manly to call out to another dude in the dark, but don't worry, I don't like grown men that wear clothes from Hot Topic.
Also, you only passed me because I actually stopped at the STOP sign. I caught you less than a block down and I don't know if you simply didn't hear my insult or had earphones in too. Maybe you were a little caught off guard that someone would actually call you on your idiocy. Dunno. You simply are not as fast a rider as me, so either train up or stop fucking about with other peoples safety.
At least you 'passed' me on the left, unlike some of your kin.
I get that other people's problems don't seem real in your self-obsessed mind, but dismissing them all as "first world" only shows your own ignorance. We live in a first world nation where children go hungry, gays get lynched, black people get shot or arrested for being black, and our own government shut down because they couldn't figure out health care. Just because we have all of the money and privilege in the world as a country, doesn't mean that some of our citizens are getting shat on daily.
You know what's a truly first world problem? Indifference.
You: paranoid hypochondriac who thinks the government wants to kill you because you were a (yeah right) Punk in the 80s and you got involved in some very minor local politics. Take a note: there is no such thing as a DEATH RAY that slowly kills you and no one has it aimed at your easy chair. I tried, more than anyone, to befriend you because I love my sister and she is very stubborn and afraid of change. You are such a piece of shit, though. You tricked her into liking you while dating by pretending you were a vegan, CLASSY. I have considered telling you that I was a government agent, just to fuck with your delusional dickheadedness. You refuse to finish school even though you’ve had two classes to finish for the last TWENTY years? No student loans because your mommy and daddy paid for it all – um, if your brain weren’t so clogged with shit you would see why they hate you. But I know you’ll be calling them again soon, the next time you need money. Your daughter is awesome - she will always be family, it’s probably good that YOU PUSSED OUT when it came to raising her, too. I look forward in hopeful anticipation to the day that my sister wises up and divorces you, my whole family looks forward to it. You’re forty two fucking years old and you have an excuse for EVERYTHING. Stop being a pussy and take that promotion from your shit job to a skid mark job. Or finish school. Or die. You’re causing headaches and wasting air.
Your fucking “camp vibes” won’t help you in the harsh realities of true adventure. It’s a cold, icy, dirty world in the backcountry and as someone who’s spent time as a dirt-bagging climber, I can assure you that retro poncho isn’t going to do shit when the squalls blast off the coast. And don’t get me started on those backpacks. No excursion with your ‘Excursion Pack’ would be successful – zero practical features and a design from the 1960’s – there’s a reason backpacks aren’t made this way anymore. But hey, I get it, your shit is the perfect accessory to the mustachioed and ‘gentlemens hair-coiffed,’ urban outdoorsmen – the ones who know where to order the perfect Americano, but couldn’t start a fire in the woods if their privileged lives depended on it.
Today I went to work tired and a little hung over promising myself that I would not drink tonight. I found myself heading to the grocery store after work picking up a bottle of wine. I downed it alone while watching a movie and then felt the urge to hit 7-11 for a 40 o' Mickeys. With Mickeys in hand, I decided to write an anonymous blog. So here we go....
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