IF YOU'RE UNFAMILIAR with the Portland Mercury's I, Anonymous Blog (find it at portlandmercury.com), it's like a Petri dish of the human psyche. Here, people post their most vicious rants and intimate confessions (anonymously) for all the world to see. It acts as flypaper for the most terrible, petty people on the planet—but you also occasionally see true flashes of humanity. It's a horrible, wonderful, raw scab of a site that presents Portlanders at their best and worst. That's why we're choosing the "Best of the Worst" I, Anonymous postings of 2013 to salute those who really know how to vent their frustrations in the most stylish of ways. Got a rant or confession? Drop it off in the I, Anonymous Blog at portlandmercury.com—where souls and bottoms are bared. Wm. Steven Humphrey


You Owe Me a Sandwich

Posted by Anonymous on Fri Sept 27 at 8:33 am

I get it, I'm skinny. I'm trying to be less so, but it's actually a lot harder for me to do than you might think. I'm not going to attempt to numerate the hardships faced by skinny people or anything. My main hardship is chairs, as they are hard, and my ass is boney. That's not much to complain about.

There is, however, a certain type of jackass who feels the need to subject strangers to unoriginal attempts at body shaming, so I will say this:

If you, a stranger, are compelled to tell me that I "need to eat a sandwich," then you had better have a fucking sandwich for me. I'll be happy to oblige you by eating it right then and there. You can watch. Just don't pull this shit if you aren't prepared to provide the aforementioned sandwich.


Just the Tip

Posted by Anonymous on Wed April 3 at 11:04 am

Sure. Tipping is not mandatory. Counter service is not the same as table service. And actually, if you just get a burger, burrito, sandwich, or slice I can believe that you didn't have time to pack lunch that day and you're a broke student. But when you buy your buddies lunch and two drinks, and I see you draw that cute little 0.00 on the tip line, I want to see you torn apart by rabid possums and then set what is left of your body on fire.

I would never spit on someone's food, but once you have stiffed me a couple times, you get the slime tomatoes from the bottom, and the worst of everything else. Don't worry, I remember your face.

I can't wait until you spend every night sobbing into your useless degree in poetic finger-painting and go to a food service job in the morning. You can think of whatever excuse or reasoning you want, but you still get the slime tomatoes. Business guy on his cell phone forgets to tip every time? Slime tomatoes. Look deep into my eyes and say thank you while drawing a line through my bill money? Slime tomatoes. I only find a few slime tomatoes a day, but I'll find something squishy for you, don't worry.


Penis Pump Toss

Posted by Anonymous on Mon May 20 at 11:45 am

To the three people who yelled, "Hey, catch!" and threw an unopened penis pump our way: My buddy and I thought it was hilarious. We were next to Sheridan's so you may have come from Taboo? Either way it was truly a nice gesture, dear fellows. The following night, when my girlfriend came over I told her the story. She asked if I kept it, and where it was. It was under the bed and we tried it out. She used it on me. I don't quite know what the fuck those things are supposed to be used for, but we had the best sex we'd had in a long time. So thanks, guys and gal! Keep throwing random shit at people!


Now What?

Posted by Anonymous on Fri March 22 at 9:38 am

I thought I had a perfect plan. For months I'd been getting ready as my savings slowly drained away, unable to find work, unable to find meaning in this empty, vapid country. I have lived in Portland 20 years, and have several great friends, but that was no longer enough to overcome the hopelessness and despair consuming me. And it's only going to get worse. We're only going to get older. We're going to die someday anyway, right? 

I had three Oxys and six morphine pills, surely enough to do the job.

When the day finally came, I spent hours walking through the city, cherishing the crisp air. The sky was so beautiful. I watched the people going about their lives and thought about how easily the world would continue without me. I returned to my little room and started drinking a 12 pack. I listened to some of my favorite tapes from my younger days.

After 10 beers I began dozing off and knew the time was ready. I looked at the baggie of pills. "Am I really going to do this?" I thought. Then I swallowed them.

I lay down on my bed, certain I would never wake up, and yet knowing I made the right decision. I hoped none of my friends would feel any guilt.

I couldn't believe it when I opened my eyes 12 hours later. I vomited repeatedly, and then I got angry because I WAS NOT DEAD. And because I'd managed to fuck up my suicide, just like everything else. I realized why people jump off buildings, shoot themselves, drive into a semi, or point a gun at cops.

So now I sit in my room two days later, crying my eyes out, drowning in sadness, more hopeless than ever and wonder—now what?


Fuck Karaoke

Posted by Anonymous on Mon May 27 at 4:02 am

I perform karaoke in costume and in character. If you have not seen me at your bars on karaoke night—you will. I am not the drunken douchebag hogging the mic with an eight-minute rendition of "Bohemian Rhapsody." (Hey, KJs! Could you take every song over five minutes OFF your song list?) I am a performer who customizes my songs. I was in your Old Town bar last night, and was cut off and reprimanded for saying "FUCK." (What The Fuck!?!?) Are you fucking kidding me!? Put on your big-girl panties and deal with it. It's art. It's performance. It's a grown-up word in a grown-up bar. Do I look like Will Fucking Smith?! How is it okay that I can spend my money in your bar, get drunk, and take home a stranger for anal coitus, but I can't say "FUCK"? Fuck you, you passive, spineless, mealy mouthed Portlanders. I will Fucking say Fuck when I Fucking want to, so Fuck You You Fucking Fuck!


Call of the Wild

Posted by Anonymous on Mon June 3 at 2:08 pm

Look, I know when I park out on Sauvie Island at one of the "clothing optional" entry points, I'll see some stuff that I won't really want to see (like the Porky Pig-like older gentlemen that wear shirts, hiking boots, but no pants). It's the sacrifice I make a few times a year so my antisocial dog can get some swimming in away from crowded areas.

Usually, I can avoid eye-to-schlong contact as we pass each other on the beach. So, no harm, no foul.

Well, to the guy I came upon this weekend anally masturbating (standing up no less) behind what you thought was vegetative cover, I say "big harm, big foul." Even if you were inside the clothing-optional area (you weren't, there's a big fucking sign on the beach about 100 yards upstream), what makes you think this kind of behavior is okay out in public?


I Don't Want to Hear About Your Period. Period.

Posted by Anonymous on Thurs June 13 at 8:35 am

We aren't "girlfriends"; we are coworkers. While I appreciate both the work you do and your generally pleasant nature, I'm a little confused as to how I warranted the discussion of your period in the short two months we have been working together. A simple allusion to your time of the month wouldn't exactly be rant-worthy, but saying things like, "I am leaking EVERYWHERE today!" or "Once this day passes, all it'll be is the brown spotting and then it's done" is, and it's especially gross when these shared tidbits of yours come out arbitrarily.

Someone saying "Good morning!" is not an invitation for you to tell everyone within earshot, "Well, not when you've had to change your pad three times in an hour!" Just because we have a uterus and a vagina doesn't mean we're all about the period talk; we all have anuses, but did you ever hear me talk about the diarrhea I had exploding from mine a few weeks back? No, you didn't, because that would have been grossly inappropriate and unsolicited information.



Posted by Anonymous on Thurs Aug 8 at 7:55 pm

What is everyone doing, just standing motionless on the escalators? Are you following some esoteric social rule of which I am unaware? Is there a damn LAW!? What do you see in your moment of Zen that I am missing? WHAT IS THERE TO SEE?! It's a moving stairway, but still just a stairway; you can walk on it. JEEZ, let's move along! This goes double for you bike-riding-wheat-grass-swilling-gym-zombies!!!


Note to Self, Make Appointments BEFORE Their Lunch

Posted by Anonymous on Wed Sept 18 at 12:08 pm

I can handle small talk about your vacation in the Caribbean with your wife and kids. I even appreciate you making me wait in a hospital gown with my knees pointed to the sky while in stirrups, waiting ever so patiently for you to return from lunch, because you fit me in on Monday when I called to reschedule my pap smear.

However, I DRAW THE LINE AT YOU ROARING A BURP INTO MY VAGINA, REGARDLESS IF YOU HAVE A MEDICAL MASK ON OR NOT! I laughed so hard, my vagina clenched down on the speculum, and I think it pinched my cervix.


You Stole My Tip Jar

Posted by Anonymous on Fri Aug 9 at 8:14 am

I hope that you die in a fiery fucking car accident in the woods that lasts three months, and all the bears, squirrels, and bunnies slowly eat your half-alive burning body as you are forced to watch in the rearview mirror, because you are wedged between the seat and a fallen tree. Then after you die, I hope you suffer an eternity of pain and anguish. I hope you are forced to listen to the Spin Doctors cover "Life Is a Highway" over and over again until your fucking ears bleed. I hope that you are repeatedly sodomized with my broken tip jar by Larry the Cable Guy while Jeff Foxworthy beats off on your face while telling you redneck jokes, all while spending several millennia riding a perpetual #6 bus. Get a fucking job!


I. Have. Cancer.

Posted by Anonymous on Mon April 22 at 9:18 am

I know it's awkward not knowing what to say, but having cancer can be enough of a bitch without all of my friends disappearing at once, leaving my bald and cancerous ass in bed alone while imagining all of the parties and shows and life that everyone is having without me.

Here's an idea for those of you with sick friends—text them, call them, visit them. Ask if you can bring anything or if they need anything. Do they need help with groceries and errands? Are they getting enough to eat and drink? Do they need company or to be left alone? Need more pain meds? Can I stop by and tidy your place for you since you probably can't do it yourself? Are your pets okay? Are you scared of dying and do you need to talk to anyone about it? Need to feel like anyone cares if you do die or not?

I have a very busy friend who texts me once a week to let me know she hasn't forgotten me and to ask how I am. That means more to me than anything.

Don't disappear. It makes us sick people feel the world has forgotten us. A little attention makes an enormous difference.


Jack the Stripper

Posted by Anonymous on Tues Nov 5 at 3:02 pm

To the creepy dude in the green sweater: You know who you are. We go to the same Catholic church in Beaverton. You're an usher and I sing in the choir. I'm writing this because I want to let you know that I've seen you walking around downtown Portland sneaking into those awful places called "strip clubs." We may be the same age, but what value do you see in strip clubs? I know you broke up with your ex-girlfriend over the summer, but your level of common sense is piss-poor beyond belief! Whenever I see you leave those places, you always have a creepy smile on your face. Get your head out of your ass and find a better place to hang out or else I'll rat you out to everyone you know at church! XOXO!

Posted by Anonymous on Sun Nov 10 at 12:59 pm

Dear Japanese tourists: Welcome to Portland. I'm honored that you've chosen our city as your vacation destination; however, I would like to address one little thing: Do not fucking insult us in Japanese.

Some of us Portlanders, like myself, speak it quite fluently. I understand that I'm white as a sheet, but I understood all the crass shit you said about me. When you said my ass is huge, and you wanted to get lost in my crack, I understood that. When you said that I look like a cow and you wanted to drink my milk, I fucking understood that, too. You're rude as hell and that's why I called you out by the bus stop near Powell's. That look of utter shock on your face when you realized I understood you was absolutely priceless, and I could tell you were embarrassed as fuck. Good. I'm glad. And I'd be happy to call you out again if you call me a dumb American again.


I Am Screaming for Vengeance!

Posted by Anonymous on Wed Nov 13 at 2:53 pm

My girlfriend and I staple posters so you can know what bands are coming. When it gets hot I take off my jacket or vest and put it in our Radio Flyer we use to hang posters. I was no longer hot, so I went to get my denim vest and it was gone. Everyone knows this vest. The one with the Judas Priest British Steel back patch and the name TYRANT over the chest pocket. Of course, it also has patches of Slayer, Venom, Iron Maiden, Wile E. Coyote, T-bone steak, a mushroom, Sinner, Zombie, and the band SLUT BUCKET written in paint pen on the pocket. Not only did you steal my vest but also the $1,000 in my pocket we were saving to buy her car.

What an asshole! Do you really think you can wear it around town? And after finding $1,000 in the pocket, why didn't you simply put it in a mailbox or something... ever heard of Craigslist???

Not only am I Screaming for Vengeance, but if I see you wearing my vest, Some Heads Are Gonna Roll!!



That Guy

Posted by Anonymous on Wed Nov 27 at 9:54 am

Hey. That Guy. Cyclist who blows through stop signs. Man loudly talking on the phone on the bus. Ladies narrating the movie in the back of the cinema. Guy pushing through the crowd at the concert. Person who honks their horn at every available opportunity. Rude barista. Non-tippers. Aggressive canvassers.

WHY ARE YOU THAT GUY? You know people hate what you do. Everyone complains about you all the fucking time. But you do it anyway. I can't, for the fucking life of me figure out why. Do you not realize you're That Guy? Or do you have some secret rage against the standards that create That Guy? Do you just not care about being That Guy?

That's the thing that bothers me the most. It's just... why? Why are you doing these things? Why are you that guy? TELL ME.


To the Amazing Driver of the #70 Bus

Posted by Anonymous on Fri Nov 22 at 1:27 pm

You pick me up at around 8:30 am at 12th & Sandy, right after my appointment each Friday. Today after exiting the bus I realized that I won't be having those appointments anymore, and will likely never see you again.

This is a damn shame, because you have to be the nicest person in the world, and I wish I'd thought to tell you that this morning. You're Gandhi-level nice. You smile at everyone and welcome them aboard, then tell us all to have good days when we leave. You stop and wait for people who would otherwise miss the bus, and nobody resents the holdup because you're too thoughtful to resent. You smile the entire time you're driving, and it's a beautiful, genuine smile. I don't know how you can have such a positive attitude with your job (driving and other humans are two things that seriously stress me out), but it improves my day every time I see you, and I actually look forward to catching the bus each Friday because of you.

I doubt you'll ever read this, but I hope you know how amazing and beautiful you are. You inspire me to be a kinder person.