“I like to cook up some ribs on the ol’ barbecue on the deck and tip back some cold ones with my buddies and my wonderful wife!” —Jeff Willford, Beaverton
Jeff, you are a tedious, shit-for-brains IMBECILE. Thanks for BORING ME TO FUCKING DEATH—just bury me with your friends who died from salmonella poisoning. RING RING! Who’s that? Oh, it’s your friends calling! They can’t attend your patio party because they’re either DEAD or still shitting blood from the medium-rare E. coli you served them last year! RING RING! Oh, say, it’s your wife! She can’t come to your little party either, because she’s leaving you—for anyone else in the world. She also mentioned that you’re boring, your cooking sucks, and your dick doesn’t work.—Frank Cassano
“Summer’s the time for taking off my shirt, crankin’ some tunes, and putting down the roof of my Mazda Miata!”—Phil Jensen, Southeast Portland
You thoughtless fucking fuckface. It’s bad enough you’re destroying a perfectly good car interior with your sweat-slathered, eczema-riddled skin, but there’s not a single person in Portland who wants to see your dangling man teats, your floppy biceps, and your misshapen belly covered with scattered patches of hair that wouldn’t look out of place in a burn ward. The mere thought of you driving on any public road makes my vomit vomit. So on behalf of a disgusted planet, PUT ON A SHIRT, you half-nude fuckwit! Oh, and if you don’t stop blasting Imagine Dragons, I will personally push your stupid fucking Miata off the Fremont Bridge.—Frank Cassano
“Frankly, I despise summer. I hate the sun, I hate picnics, I hate late evening walks, I hate Sauvie Island, I hate sunscreen, I hate chafed thighs, I hate every single person in that crowded beer garden, I hate leather seats, I hate mosquitoes, I hate yard work, I hate baseball caps, I hate spindly legs in cargo shorts, I hate the sun waking me up at 6:30 am, I hate seeing men’s ugly feet, I hate festivals, I hate frolicking, I hate sweat-staches, I hate the smell of co-workers’ rank armpits, I hate sleeping with three fans in my room, and I hate the way the city smells like a cross between rancid garbage and boiling urine. Summer can go fuck itself.” —Debbie Hines, Northeast Portland
I love you.—Frank Cassano
