[For 25 loooong years, the Portland Mercury has published your most bizarre rants and intimate confessions (anonymously!) in print and online under the banner of “I, Anonymous.” Though it’s like flypaper for the most terrible, petty people on the planet, this long-running, casually disgusting column also exhibits the occasional flash of humanity. That's why we've chosen to share our picks for the most insane, hilarious, filthy, and heartfelt I, Anonymous postings of all time—and remember: If these people weren’t blowing off steam here they’d be blowing it in your face. (Got a rant or confession? Drop it off in the I, Anonymous Blog at portlandmercury.com—where both souls and bottoms are bared.) Oh, and pick up a copy of the Mercury's anniversary issue here.—Eds.]

The Rules of Life

Rule 1: Always use your turn signal. Rule 2: DON’T EVER USE MY FUCKING TOOTHBRUSH! Why? Because it’s MY fucking toothbrush! Just because I brush my teeth in the shower, it doesn’t give you the right to use it without asking. Do you think it’s fine just because we kiss? IT IS NOT THE FUCKING SAME! Sure, when we’re kissing, we’re balls deep in each other’s DNA. However, we’re not licking each other’s teeth. Using someone else’s toothbrush is exactly the same as chewing used dental floss. And that’s really fucking gross to me! Rule 3: Don’t text during movies.—Anonymous

Penis Pump Toss

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!—Anonymous

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 Portlanders, like myself, speak it quite fluently, and 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. So maybe don’t call me “a dumb American” ever again.—Anonymous

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

We aren't "girlfriends”—we are coworkers. While I appreciate 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’ve been working together. A simple allusion to your time of the month is fine, but saying things like, "I am leaking EVERYWHERE today!" or "After today, just a little brown spotting and then it's done" is disgusting, and it's especially gross when these shared tidbits come out arbitrarily. 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 both have a uterus and a vagina does not make it appropriate. We all have anuses, but do you hear me talking about my latest case of explosive diarrhea? No, you don’t, because that’s what’s known as “unsolicited information.”—Anonymous

Confessions of a Peeper

It was the night I moved into my new studio apartment. It was a pretty sweet setup—with floor-to-ceiling windows facing another building with floor-to-ceiling windows. As I unpacked, I looked out and spied an attractive heterosexual couple, naked, engaging in sexy activities. What’s this? Did I win the sex peeper lottery? I wasn’t getting internet installed for another week, so I figured, “why not?” I poured myself a glass of wine, sat by the window, and watched. They obviously wanted me to, right? Their shades were WIDE open. Anyway, I took a break to smoke a bowl during the BJ—because, boring—and also because the guy did that awful king-of-the-castle, hands-behind-his-head move. They continued their sexcapades occasionally. Once, they even had what looked like a light BDSM session, with a short kitty whip and blindfolds (she was whipping him, which I appreciated). But after a while, their sexcapades became less frequent. I was genuinely worried! Was their relationship okay? A few months later, they moved out. Now some boring guy who collects bonsai plants lives there. And let me tell you right now: NOT AS INTERESTING.—Anonymous

Squirrel Murder, She Wrote

Dear neighbors a few houses down: From my back porch I can see both of you, putting peanuts on the road around rush hour. The squirrels get run over, you shovel them into a bucket, and then disappear. What the hell are you doing with all those dead squirrels? Taxidermy? Making potpies? Don’t get me wrong, I’m all for it. I hate squirrels. Just curious, that’s all!—Anonymous

Sock Romance

We both work as servers in a restaurant. I have a thing for you, but you don’t even notice me. In fact, when we do work together, you’re mean and bossy (which I kinda dig). Lately we’ve been working different shifts, and I miss that, but I’ve found a way to reconnect: You leave your silky socks in your locker, which I wear in your absence. Previously I would just sniff and occasionally fuck them in the bathroom—but now I full on wear them. You wash them several times a week, so I’m careful not to mess them up. The way I see it, if we aren’t going to work together as much anymore, I need something to keep me on my toes.—Anonymous

Queen of the Bees

I’m an asshole—so be it. But do you know what it took to get where I am today? A lot of fucking ass-kissing, that’s what. I’m the boss now and apparently people don’t like it. Do I care? Not really. Listen up folks: I put in my time, I did what I had to do, I FUCKING compromised myself in more ways than one to rise to the top. So if you think I’m going to give two shits about how you feel about me, you’re fucking wrong. And yeah, okay, sometimes I’m in a piss-poor mood because of the SHIT I’ve had to go through, and I’ll take it out on your sorry ass. But you know what? There isn’t a goddamn thing you can do about it. You are the worker bee and I am the fucking queen. Get it? If you want to get anywhere in life, you need to start kissing up. And you can begin with MY ass.—Anonymous

Note to Self: Make Appointments BEFORE Their Lunch

To my gynecologist: I can handle small talk about your vacation in the Caribbean with your wife and kids. 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.—Anonymous

A Crime Against Humanity

When you are born, you learn to cry to get attention. Then you learn to crawl so you can walk, become mobile, and eventually get a job. But the most important thing you can ever learn? NEVER FUCKING MICROWAVE FISH AT WORK!! What the hell is wrong with you??!?!?!—Anonymous

I (May Have) Impregnated My Sister

My sister, whom I live with, just told me she may be pregnant. We’ve been roommates for over a year, and she’s not dating anyone. So here’s what I’m afraid of: Sometimes, after pleasuring myself, I take a dump before showering. My fear is that I might’ve left some spooge drops on the toilet and... fuck, I don’t know... maybe she could have gotten pregnant from it? I know she hasn’t dated anyone in a few months, so what else could it be? Do I tell her? How could I? If I tell her now, it will be the most fucking disgusting conversation we’ve ever had! But if I wait too long, and my suspicion proves true, then it’ll be even worse! Yes, I know: This is some fucked up shit. But tell me, WHAT DO I DO? —Anonymous

Pinballing

Dear young sir and madam: I’m sorry I chose to play pinball on the very machine where you were fornicating underneath. I didn’t know, and I sincerely hope both of you had a chance to finish. And, sir, while I appreciate you saying, "There's a party goin' on down here," there’s no explanation necessary! You are both quite attractive (and limber!) and should be having sex as often as you can, and in as many places as possible. So please, I beseech you: Don't let my rude, inadvertent interruption deter you from any further public bangin'—whether it be under pinball machines or wherever your fancy strikes. Godspeed, young horny pinballers, godspeed.—Anonymous

Paying It Forward (and Backward)

This is for the young woman behind me in line at the grocery store. You did not know me. You did not know I was suffering from a migraine that almost put me in the hospital. You did not know my husband was let go from a 16-year job, which leaves us short on money sometimes. What you did know was that my debit card wasn’t accepted. And when I told the cashier that I’d run home to get the money, you said you’d pay for them. When I thanked you, you said someone had done the same for you. I wanted to give you a hug and tell you how grateful I was. I have tears in my eyes right now thinking of your generosity. What you did could be considered a small gesture—my grocery bill was a little over $20—but it will reverberate in my life for a very long time. Thank you.—Anonymous

Sorry for the Shitty Date

I left you at the movies in the middle of our very first date and I thought you should know why: I shit my pants.

I don’t know what I ate that wrecked my digestive system, but I wasn’t going to let it keep me from spending time with you. I was convinced it was just gas, and held it in as long as possible. When you got up to use the restroom, I wasted no time venting the pressure cooker inside my bowels. That’s when I realized, to my horror, that what I mistook for simple gas was instead a foul jet of the blackest fecal matter. It smelled like hot roadkill and sulfur, and was sticking to the inside of my pants.

I panicked. Grabbing my sweater I tied it around my waist, and walked briskly toward the exit, just as you were coming back in. I mumbled something about having to use the restroom, knowing full well I was lying to you.

By the time I made it back to my place you had texted 10 times; initially with cute faux concern, followed by sincere worry, and finally disappointment. I had no idea how to respond, so I did what I do best: absolutely nothing. Is it too late to say sorry?—Anonymous

Fuck You, Wizard Hater

Fuck you. Yeah, you: the asshole who took time out of your miserable day to tell me how much you hate my wizard murals. You probably don’t have a single drop of artistic sense in your hate-mongering soul. Want to get rid of all the world’s wizard murals? Here’s an idea: You can stick every one of them up your ass.—Anonymous

Boss Naked

I want to fuck my boss. In fact, my vibrator is called “Boss Naked.” Of course he’s married, and so am I, which is why it’s never going to happen. But when I’m going to sleep at night, I think of him slowly touching me. In his office, I imagine him bending me over his desk and taking me from behind, hard and fast. I like my job and don’t want to get a different one, but it’s really hard to endure this torture. How do I stop thinking of my boss naked? I’m not sure how much longer “Boss Naked” will satisfy me.—Anonymous

Here’s a Tip

When I use the bathroom at your house, I snoop around in medicine cabinets and under the sink until I find what I’m looking for. I’m not looking for medication, or weird infection creams. I don’t want to take anything. I just want to feel the light scrape of a cotton-covered stick against my inner ear. I love Q-tips. I use them compulsively and have damaged my ears at least twice. After using yours I bury them in the garbage so no one will know. If there’s no garbage can in your bathroom, I’ll put them in a pocket until I leave your house. Like a recovering alcoholic, I can’t keep them in my home—but at your place I go into relapse mode. Thank you for keeping your Q-tip supply stocked. I really need that 30 seconds of bliss.—Anonymous

Special Delivery

Dear pizza delivery man: I’m sorry you caught me masturbating on my couch. Normally I don’t pleasure myself in the living room, but I was relishing a night alone. Agreed, it was a horribly awkward situation, but to be fair, you did arrive before the estimated delivery time. Since when do pizzas arrive early? At least it made your night more exciting. However, I do wonder one thing: It was my dog who first noticed you standing there… so why didn’t you knock or ring the doorbell?—Anonymous

Tool Justice

My truck has been broken into twice in the last week, so here's what I did last night: I left the canopy unlocked and put in a cardboard box weighed down by a couple of bricks. I left the box slightly open and then inside, on top of the bricks, I set two rat traps. I didn't hear anything during the night, but this morning the canopy was open, and there was blood on the bricks. The box had been ripped and one of the traps was missing. Ha! Ha! Take that, you goddamn thieves! The cops ain’t doing shit in this drug-riddled town, but I got me some justice… rat trap justice!—Anonymous

Pogo Stick It Up Your Ass

To the douchebag pogo-er of SE 35th and Morrison: You have got to be the only person in Portland over the age of 10 who owns a pogo stick and uses it on a daily basis. And you are seriously way too serious about this bullshit. Maybe if you gave the impression that you were fucking around, and maybe if this were not a habitual thing, it wouldn't be so bad. But I can honestly say that I have never seen someone so goddamn serious about hopping around shirtless on a fucking pogo stick. What are you, almost 40? FORTY! Get a real hobby, dude. And worst of all, you wear what strongly resembles a pair of JNCO jeans—which I didn’t even know were still available for purchase.—Anonymous

Town Crier

Brad, get off the heroin! I say that on behalf of the entire block, and your girlfriend, who was screaming at you on her cell phone while sitting on her front stoop at 6:45 this morning. She's screaming at you, Brad, and you won't take this seriously. Brad, don't you realize all she's "done for you"? You're "not even listening" to her. We're all listening to her now, Brad. We have to listen. She's screaming at the top of her lungs, Brad. "Why the fuck did you do it?" Why, Brad? She is "so angry right now!" She's waking up the entire street for you, Brad, and you don't even "get it"! She can't believe you're laughing! The neighborhood's not laughing. We're all concerned about your drug problem. We have to be. I don't think the neighborhood can believe you would do this to her. Think about it, Brad: Your girlfriend is hot. She's so together. If you don't change your ways, I think the neighborhood might make a move and steal her away from you. But that's just between you and me, and the neighborhood she woke up at 6:45 am.—Anonymous

Crime & Punishment (& Dick Size)

Yes, you saw me chasing kids down the street. And yes, I may have been a little rough when I caught ‘em. So, being the concerned neighbor you are, you called the police on me. But here's what you DIDN'T see: These little shits kept buzzing the front door of my apartment, asking me how big my dick is, and then hanging up. And here’s something else you DIDN’T SEE: While I was waiting in handcuffs, the cops questioned those kids—and found stolen wallets, checkbooks, credit cards, and cell phones in their backpacks. That’s when the cops told me I was free to go and they were going to send these little criminals to juvie. So before congratulating yourself for rescuing some little shits from a bad man, maybe you should take a look at the police report! And just in case you’re wondering, my dick is a very normal size!—Anonymous

Dear Christian Funk Bass Player

To the Christian funk bass player I met on Bumble: You are misrepresenting yourself! On our first date, we were making out for over an hour at the bar when I asked you to come back to my place. I figured it was obvious that I wanted to have sex. Yes, I said it—"sex." Yet when I started unbuttoning your shirt, you became overcome by inner turmoil and called for an Uber. I should’ve been offended, but instead, I fell hard. You opened doors, had a Texas accent, and wore boots. So on our next date I tried to initiate sex again, and that’s when you dropped a bomb: You play funk bass… at a Christian church. And you’re celibate?!? WTF?!? Next time you decide to date, please do the world a favor and write “Celibate Christian Funk Bass Player” on your profile. Because Jesus hates liars.—Anonymous

That Sinking Feeling

I’ve always been a sink pisser—but only in single occupancy bathrooms, of course. There’s something about being able to whip it out, gaze at my own reflection, and take a luxurious piss in a sink. See, I hate having to contend with toilet seats. With sink pissing, you don’t really have to aim; just zip, plop, and whizz. Plus, you’re reducing waste by not flushing away gallons of water! The environment wins, I win, and YOU win. Join the sink pissing revolution!—Anonymous

Smart Pork

To the young, horny couple that decided to have sex at 10 am on a weekday on the roof of the SW 4th and Taylor Smart Park: Today was my birthday, and from the tower across the street, my coworkers and I were eating cake, watching you kids do the nasty, and laughing our asses off. What, you thought we wouldn't notice a guy holding a girl up against the wall with his dick? I guess you didn’t notice that horrified old lady in her car, because it was pure comedy when you realized you weren't alone on the roof. And you provided the perfect ending when you ran for the stairs while trying to pull your pants up, falling flat on your face. Sincerely though, thank you for the free, live porn. It was hot, exciting, hilarious, and by far the best office birthday party ever.—Anonymous

Other Than That, How Did You Enjoy the Show?

I commend your attempt to introduce theater to your children, although why you chose a 100-minute-long monologue of Homer’s Iliad is beyond me. However, when only three minutes into the production your 7-year-old leans over to you and says, "I'm going to throw up," your correct response should have been to grab him and run for the bathroom. However, you decided to pull his head into your lap and encourage him to barf on you instead. After being covered in what appeared to be rancid ice cream, you still didn’t leave, and instead asked for your husband’s hat for your child to use as a puke bucket. As the rest of us stewed in the stench of fresh vomit, you mopped up the chunks in your lap with your scarf, while your poor kid heaved and shivered until he passed out. Question: What fucking planet are you from? Yes, tickets were expensive, and your exit may have disrupted the performance, but you completely fucked the show for everyone 20 feet around you. And I’ll never be able to enjoy Homer again!—Anonymous

The Milk of Human Selfishness

Ewww! Stop trying to sell your “fresh” breast milk on Nextdoor! It’s nasty, weird, and at 50 cents per ounce, pretty goddamn expensive. Plus, it’s been frozen? That’s not “fresh,” you idiot! Maybe I should show up with a mini growler, and ask if you’ll take some of my “fresh” dandruff in trade!—Anonymous

Camping Etiquette

We knew camping on the first nice weekend of summer would be busy, so we smartly planned ahead: We drove up on Thursday, chose an out-of-the-way camping area, grabbed a nice site under the trees, pitched a tent, and headed back to Portland. Friday after work, we arrived to find YOU in OUR site, and our tent disassembled and piled next to the firepit. You nervously said that when you had arrived "the tent was already taken down," which was an obvious LIE, and exposed to your embarrassed wife and kids that Daddy was a goddamn LIAR. We had no other choice but to move on down the road and re-pitch our tent on a bare patch of dirt next to a busy trailhead. Well, we hope you had a great time, because our weekend was ruined! That was our spot, we claimed it, and you stole it. So the next time you’re packing up your gear, maybe don’t forget your etiquette.—Anonymous

Lose Your Keys?

Dear Stupid Hag: Last night, I saw you stop your car, walk over to our neighbor’s yard, and start cutting and taking all her beautiful spring flowers. You also left your car door wide open, with the keys in the ignition. You didn’t see me take your keys or hear me on the phone calling the towing company. Your reaction… was priceless. Hearing you become unhinged was absolute delight to my ears. And it was even better when the tow truck arrived to take your car away. The sound of you crying on your phone for your friends to come pick you up was the (mwah!) chef’s kiss. Oh, and by the way, if you’re curious, your keys are in a huge shrub between Sandy and Halsey on 49th. Hope stealing some poor lady’s flowers was worth it!—Anonymous

Curse of the Fry Girl

You stupid wannabe witch. You didn't think I saw you trying to put a curse on me at McDonald's, did you? Listen, I don't have time to wait 10 minutes while you deal with all the cars in the drive-through. I have a REAL job to get to, Esmerelda. So yeah, I complained to your manager! But instead of apologizing, you wiggled your spindly fingers at me and mumbled some sort of made-up hex under your breath. Well, you’ll be sad to know that your curse didn’t work. Because newsflash, dummy: WITCHCRAFT IS NOT REAL! Because if it were, you wouldn’t be working at McDonalds! —Anonymous

I Gave Him a Lyft

My boss was out of town and the office was dead, so I spent the morning on Scruff. A guy with beautiful eyes wanted me to come fuck him on my lunch break. He was 23 blocks away, so I took a Lyft. After we were done, I took another Lyft back. The driver was a guy; handsome, possibly gay. Asked how my day was going, what I was up to. So I told him the truth. He gave me a look in the rearview and said, "That's hot." "Do you ever hook up with customers?" I asked. "No," he said. "What about, like, just pulling over to let someone suck you off?" "No." A pause, and then he added, "But that'd be so hot." "I'd be down," I said. He turned off Lyft's tracking system, found a place to pull over, and unzipped while I got into the front seat. I sucked him off, careful not to bang my face on his steering wheel. Then he took me back to work. All in all, a pretty good day at the office!—Anonymous 

Go Get ‘Em, Gay Tiger

To the dad and son at a local coffee shop: I apologize for eavesdropping, but I was very interested in your conversation. You, overeager father, were sharing encouraging words with your teenage son, slapping him on the back, and giving that classic dad pep talk: “Go on... just walk over and say hi. You can do this! You have to put yourself out there, son. Now go! This is your chance!” I watched as the young man slowly got up, walked over to the sexy bearded cashier, and started flirting. I was awestruck. I looked back to see the dad beaming and his son doing his best to stay cool. I love living in this bubble of a city where you can witness a dad talking his son into hitting on another guy. Hats off to you, dad, and way to put yourself out there, young guy. THIS is how things should be.—Anonymous

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