Prepare for the shock of your freaking life: With this issue, the Mercury turns 19 years old!

WHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAT! That’s right, naysayers! Nineteen mother-lovin’ years old. Remember back in early ’00s when all you Negative Nancys were squirting hate-flavored juice in my snow cone, claiming that the Mercury would never last? Well, who’s eating a big ol’ bag of dicks now? Spoiler alert: YOU ARE!

But because I’m the bigger person, I’m not going to spend this column harping on how WRONG you were. Let’s just leave it at you were WRONG, I was RIGHT, and you may now return to your darkened shame corner to chew on that big bag of dicks.

So, what does it mean to turn 19 years old? Let’s explore:

Nineteen! A year of hope and horror. Instead of attending community college immediately following high school, you decided to take a year off to “find yourself.” That year passes, and you “find yourself” locked to the couch, engulfed in a cloud of dope smoke, and wondering if it’s safe to eat that cold pot of spaghetti that’s been sitting on the stove for three weeks.

Nineteen! Faced with the specter of your parents cutting off all financial support, you enroll in the local community college and apply for a part-time job at the mall. They’re not hiring at your first choice (Chess King), so you’re forced to work at Hot Dog on a Stick. Initially humiliated, you soon discover their uniforms are AH-MAY-ZING.

Nineteen! English 101: Steffi Jones looks at you from across the aisle as you complete your expository essay on the advent of home computers and the dangers they could present in the next 10 years. Her eyes are beautiful. You ask her out. Will you sleep with her? Maybe yes, maybe no. Turns out to be absolutely no, and you end up sleeping with her ex-boyfriend instead. That’s 19 for ya!

Nineteen! You have no idea what to do with your life. Hot Dog on a Stick is okay, but you could do better. So, after purchasing your first “adult” suit at Merry-Go-Round, you head to the federal office downtown to apply for the Secret Service. Turns out you have to be really good at math. WHAT THE FUCK? What does advanced calculus have to do with taking a bullet for the president? And why would you want to take a bullet for the president? Fuck this, you head back to the mall. Well, as long as you’re wearing the suit, might as well check in on... oh. Chess King still isn’t hiring.

Nineteen! There are so many parties. At 2 am you’re still dancing like a maniac to General Public’s “Never You Done That” and at 4 am you’re sneaking onto the Derrymore Golf Course where you lie on the green of the 16th hole and stare up at the sky wondering if you’re going to be anywhere in five, 10, 15, 30 years... and guess what? YOU ARE. You get to where life takes you, and sure, it was occasionally bumpy, but it was all okay. And the best part of all? When you arrive, you get to laugh and laugh at all the WRONG people who said you’d never make it and are currently sitting in the corner eating a big bag of dicks! Booyah, shit-birds!

Yer pal,
Wm. Steven Humphrey
Editor-in-Chief
Portland Mercury