To the hordes of morons stumbling between Barracuda and Voodoo: You're fucking morons. Maybe if you quit worrying about how tough you look, you wouldn't go home plastered and alone every weekend after exhausting your entire paycheck. How do I know you're alone and broke? I drive your drunk ass back to Beaverton. I don't mind that you try to act surprised every time I say the ride is going to cost $30. I don't mind that you bitch about how inconvenient it is to use your check card. (I'm not going to give you a discount or a "flat rate" because you spent all your fuckin' money on Jäger bombs.) I don't even mind that you can't stop rambling about "that one bitch" you almost took home. What I do mind is that you berate me to impress your friends. You act like I'm the dipshit because I don't know how to get to "Worthington Meadows Crossing" or wherever the fuck you live. Yeah, that's funny. I come home to a beautiful woman in a nice house every night. You are barely scraping by to pay rent in a Beaverton shithole, and falling asleep every night on the 30-year-old couch your mom gave you. Laugh it up, prick. -Anonymous
The views expressed in these submissions are from anonymous, unverified sources and do not necessarily represent those of the Portland Mercury.