Dear Portland: Stop this motherfucking mustache and bacon Band-Aid bullshit, please! I am about to crawl into your hot pink mustache panties and take a bacon-scented doo-doo. You have gotten lazy. You have become a predictable cliché. You have become the uncle who insists, "Pull my finger!" It's not funny anymore. It was funny for one hour of one day, maybe. But now it's boring and annoying. Keeping Portland weird has become synonymous with conformity. I challenge you to actually be weird. What does it mean? You would ask for a recipe. It means stop copying the answers off your neighbor's paper and just be your fucking self. If you are willing to be real and not "pretend-weird" like all y'all are so into, maybe you'll consider trading in your fixie for a dolphin-powered jet ski that you can use to carpool up and down the Willamette. Or maybe you will take that salted-chocolate-deer-flavored gelato and insert it in your tattooed/gauged asshole. Just stop acting like you're so crazy because you have a vegetable tattoo. How about you tattoo Regis' face over your face?—Anonymous