Alright everybody. It's Friday so without further ado, here's The Rant. What's for dinner this time of year? Chicken pot pie and we all know what that means: burnt fucking mouth. That's what chicken pot pies are to me. Burnt mouth. Whoever invented that shit is an asshole. Must've been Mel Gibson's senior project at the Hitler Youth Academy. Jews are like elephants homeboy, we never forget. Next, artistic intellectuals at bars on N.W. 23rd. I'm not at Matador in the hopes of inadvertently hearing your drivel about the roots of Steampunk. I'm there to get shit faced on overly expensive margaritas, show off my nose ring, and hit on women that are way out of my league. By the by, you aren't the only mother fuckers in this city that eat salads and listen to Elliot Smith. Bitch. And let's not forget about the loud talker on the Max wearing dirty Lugz, a Kangol hat, and carrying an air of basic unintelligence. Just know that I quietly judged you right after avoiding eye contact with the crazy lady that kept talking about Satan but before pretending to text somebody. I offered the crazy lady a piece of gum. She declined. Lastly, the mens' bathroom at Casa Diablo. Although I'm stoked on the graffiti and the glory hole (joking), I'm less than enthused about there not being a door for the toilet stall. You try walking in there to be greeted by some drunk ass hipster taking a shit and babbling about the alpaca scarf he bought at a vintage clothing store in the Alberta Arts District...
Paint that, Bob Ross. I pinched a loaf in there once just for the experience. I was not wearing a scarf. Anyways, now that the erring of grievances has been concluded, it's time for the feats of strength! Happy Festivus Portland (insert iconic bass line).