Getting Off and Getting Effed Up For The Global Good

As we are all well aware, we are clinging to our copper pennies in these dire financial times. I have especially sad news: my delightful, sexy, low-key PDX store has closed up shop. After 28 years in business. RIP.

Alas, don’t worry about me!! I rake in the chips in an industry that will never disappear regardless of the impending financial apocalypse--Convicted Sexual Deviance. The fact that my sex-offender polygraph business franchise has stayed steady and then some over the last few dismal economic months really makes me think. When the economy crashes, people stop buying silly extravagances. They stop eating out at over-priced restaurants. They stop paying a house-cleaner and just do that shit themselves. They buy generic brand refried beans instead of the good shit--you know, Rosarita brand, with the hot Mexican lady in the flowy white top, that doesn’t have oil settled on top when you open the can.

HOWEVER…

When a bear is hungry… he will eat, my friends. Concurrently, he will drink copiously. And also he will bone random bitches with reckless abandon. Sex and liquor are the great equalizers. So here is my hypothesis: I should sell everything in my possession, including but not limited to my non-essential organs such as one of my kidneys and possibly my appendix; to front the money to open an independently-run Liquor Store/Smut Shop. That’s right folks. Booze, porn, distastefully discreet vibrators, strap-ons, and MIXERS. For the love of all that is Holy, every store selling liquor should be required to sell POP and JUICE, and this novel concept is long overdue in its enactment. I feel compelled to channel one of my regular stop-offs while living in Bozeman, Montana--Pork Chop John’s. Walk through the front door and go left, you get deep fried sausage and chicken-fried pork. Go to the right, and you get a full cooler of mixers along with 90% alcohol content Everclear and the cheapest Jack D you’ll find in the lower 48. Did I mention the cashiers spit their chew at the floor before handing you your receipt? I’m quite sure it’s the closest place to the Kingdom of Heaven on our humble Earth. Ever hit up the liquor store just across the I-5 Bridge in Jantzen Beach? No sales tax, cheap liquor and mixers galore. It is positively magical. I need a spare pair of panties just to walk through the door, I’m not even gonna lie.

So let us all do our part to reinvigorate the global economy. Gas is down to two bucks a gallon so I know you have some flex money in that wallet of yours. Treat yourself to some Toys in Babeland merchandise, and purchase the hell out of some holiday liquor specials. Whiskey AND a tumbler? Rum AND a celebratory shot glass? Random name-brand, rapper-endorsed vodka AND an emblazoned low-ball glass? YES. PLEASE.

We all must make sacrifices. Orgasms and liquor for financial stability, HOLLAH!!

The Skeeziest of the Skeeze

I am about to take you on a journey of skeeze. If you are not well aware of what "skeeze" is, just picture Kevin Federline, with his goatee smeared with lard, wearing a home-confinement bracelet (that bitch totally made up the domestic violence charge) and a shirt that says "Git 'Er Dunn", winking at a girl who is walking home from middle school. That's skeeze. And so our journey begins.

I have two jobs. I work at a small store in the Portland Airport selling lingerie and body products, and I also type polygraphs (read: lie detector) exams on convicted sex offenders who are on probation or parole, as I have done for the last 5+ years. Because of the former, I have endured many a cheesy pick-up line ("Hey, my wife is about your size... can you model this nightie for me so I could see how it fits?" *wink wink*). Because of the latter, I have heard in brain-sloshing detail the dirty habits of my sexually deviant peers for the better part of a decade. I am no stranger to skeeze by any measure. And yet the skeeziness of the skeeze I encountered tonight has become the One Lost Sock in the Laundry Room of my Life. Side note: The cleverness of that metaphor has yet to be seen. Stay tuned for the next few paragraphs.

I was at my lovely airport store, minding my own business on a very slow night. I was checking NFL scores on my Blackberry and rocking out to The Best of Cat Stevens on the store speakers, and a nice gentleman wandered in.

Nice Dude: "This is Cat Stevens playing. Did you choose the music?"

Me: "I sure did, I love Cat Stevens!"

We proceeded to discuss Cat Stevens and his musical glory, and even expanded this conversation to include Bruce Springsteen, Simon & Garfunkel, and James Taylor. We swapped MUST-SEE YouTube look-ups and cemented our random musical assimilatude with a Post-It note trade-off for must-hear ditties. Then... Shit. Got. WEIRD.

Me: "Wow, we totally have the same taste in music. I will definitely look up that video of Bruce Springsteen covering U2's "With or Without You." It sounds killer!"

Nice Dude: "Oh you should. It's really very good. I think you'll enjoy it. (pause) So I have one more question for you."

Me: "Sure!"

Nice (ahem, Creepy) Dude: "Could I give you ten dollars for your socks?"

Okay, I need to pause from the dialogue for a moment. Partly because I just pooped my brains out of my butt and partly because a statement as such deserves an awkward blog-pause.

Pause.

Me: "Uhhm. You mean the socks. That I'm wearing. Like on my feet. Right now?"

Creepy Dude: "Yeah. I'll give you ten dollars for them."

Me: ".... Well... uhhhm... these are kind of my favorite socks. So... uhh... (*brain exploding*) I don't think I can take them off my feet and give them to you."

Creepy Dude: "Oh, okay! (*shakes my hand*) Well, wow, it was really great talking to you!" *exits store*

That.

Just.

Happened.

If you have ever seen Tenacious D: The Pick Of Destiny, I had the exact facial expression of Jack Black as he first experienced Kyle Gass's guitar playing. It's the same expression you'd produce if your father said to you, "You know, I always knew your mother was a trifling-ass whore, and now I have the DNA evidence." It is a look of bewilderment and confusion with a dash of I-knew-it-all-along.

This is what pisses me off about this whole situation: Creepy Dude did not follow through on his skeeziness. He just bounced out at the height of skeeziness, leaving me no time to verbally respond, or even to vomit uncontrollably. I found myself confounded and in desperate need of a Skeeze-Drain-O to cleanse my system. I have thus hit a mental mind-block. I care not about my bank balance, my paycheck, the State of the Union, my health, the weather... I am all-consumed by why a random man finds my used, smelly, worn socks to be worthy of ten dollars worth of US currency. I am also all-consumed by why his inability to attain these socks from me is of so little consequence to him. He didn't even ask twice. I semi-shot him down, and he gave up. Are my smelly socks of so little calibur that in his strange perversion he couldn't even cough up, "...Are you sure?"

Why are my used socks so appealing, and yet so forgetable? Eff you, Presumable Foot-Fetishist Guy. You've bruised my smelly foot ego.

What ever happened to asking a girl out for dinner? When the hygeniency of my smelliest extremities is a source of sexual curiousity, I resign to a lifetime of spinsterhood.

Sexually perverse male gender, I just can't quit you.

Because I Don't Want Ace Ventura After Me...

Preface: I am blogging for a very serious reason today. I have to write about something other than politics. I have written often and at length recently about my desire to throw excrement in the neighborhood of Sarah Palin's vacuous head, and McCain's useless and fossilized scrote. The election is growing ever-near, and I'm seriously, like, one Palin YouTube clip away from filling up notebooks with "Die Bitch Die" and drawing devil horns on pictures of her with my Sharpie, ala Ray Finkle. I do not want to become Ray Finkle. That would involve having sexual relations with Roger Pedacter, and that dude was about as erotic as used Kleenex. So moving on.

So my grandmother is a herb-loving hippie and a 40+ years practicing Buddhist who could grow back a limb with echinacea and good energy. It is because of her that I am keenly aware of my Qi and my karmic balance. And last week, karma hawked a lugie in my hair.

I am a terrible driver. This is no secret to anyone who has driven with me, or the small children who bounce off my windshield as I fly through residential areas in fourth gear. I've been pulled over more times than I can count, but I am not often ticketed (almost never, actually). I think it's because I have boobs and can cry on command. Lucky me. Well, my luck ran out:

That would be the TWO tickets I got last week. The first was a parking ticket for 30 bones for parking too close to a fire hydrant. In my defense, I was five minutes late to class already and the equivalent of the entire population of Suriname was already parked on campus, leaving me to park on the street. In such a situation, I am completely unaware of my surroundings. I'm just lucky I didn't park in someone's front yard or at a stop sign which has been known to happen. But whatevs, it's just thirty bucks, right? I'll budget for that by drinking Vendange instead of Yellow Tail for a few weeks. No harm done.

The second, that smarmy green bastard, would be my "speeding" ticket. I put "speeding" in quotes, because I was actually driving so slow my cousin Emily, who was riding bitch, could have bailed out and landed on her feet. At the speed I was going, a 7th grader with asthma and a limp would have beat me in a footrace. I was going TWENTY-THREE miles per hour. Alas, in a school zone.

(Side note: back in my day, we kids recognized cars as whizzing deathmachines and stayed clear of them. Kids these days hide behind their fancy "school zones" and dance into the street without looking. Maybe a little roadrash would do them good, the snot-nosed bastards.)

So I see the flashing lights behind me, realize that I am still in second gear, and figure I couldn't possibly be written a speeding ticket for driving in second gear. So I get out my registration and license, blah blah blah, like I've done a million times, batted my eyelashes and waited for that familiar slap-on-the-wrist. But oh no, this vindictive ass of a cop came back with that stupid-ass green citation written out for, wait for it...

$186!!!

What kind of fuckstick tickets a nice girl with a big smile $186 for driving THREE over the speed limit?? I'll tell you what kind. The kind with a stupid mustache and probably a tiny weiner and shrunken balls and a fat, ugly wife, and stupid, retard kids who lives in a dumb, filthy house and still has a Bush-Cheney 04 sticker on his fucking stupid beater car and kills puppies for sport. Yeah, that kind.

Oh wait, the mere act of writing this ridiculous citation was not nearly chodey enough to indicate the chode-level of this Chode. If you've ever gotten a ticket, you know that on the back you have three options (and I'm paraphrasing):

1. I'm lazy and have an expendable income. Here's a check.

2. Okay, you caught me. But my hair was on fire, my wife was in labor, I forgot my kid at the gas station, and my mortal enemy was pursuing with with a machete, so I'm really sorry, can you please not make me pay so much.

3. That fucking cop's a liar and I'll see you in court.

Officer Scroteface put a BIG BLACK "X" over option 2. Excuse me? Is this not AMERICA, the great land of making excuses for shit? Isn't that the entire point of our legal system? So people can stand in front of a judge and say "Yes, but Your Honor..."?

My driving karma is so bad, I got a $186 ticket for driving three over the speed limit, written by a traitorous Commie who hates America and everything she stands for. Come on, Great Laws of the Universe, what have I done?!

Why Testicles and A Manufactured Home Pissed Me Off Today

So I decided to go on a leisurely drive today, upon finding my old Offspring Conspiracy of One CD (side note: that is a great fucking CD, but I hate myself for having become the mid-twenties yuppie who ironically listens to the music of yesteryear while making cracks about the shit "kids these days" listen to. But really, If I hear another song about umbrellas or lollipops on Z100, I'm going to punch a high schooler in the face. Really hard, too.) Ahem. Anyways.

So I'm driving about town running errands and singing along to "I Want You Bad", and I eventually realized that not even the delightful songs of my bitter youth could quell my deeply-seeded Road Rage.

It should be noted that I am a Class-A terrible driver. I mean, atrociously bad even under normal circumstances, surrounded by well-piloted cars obeying any and all traffic devices. Throw in a couple douchebags who slipped through the cracks of the Department of Licensing, and my quaint little Jetta becomes vehicular bitch-slap waiting to happen.

Rage Recipient #1: Dude in the Chevy S10 with those stupid fake hairy testicles hanging from his trailer hitch.

Method of Rage-Disbursement: Pretty tame. I gave you a look of disgust as I passed you and cut you off, then drove exactly three under the speed limit. Oh, and I decided I will never, ever have sex with you, ever. Nope.

Okay, Dude. I'll be honest. I have the sense of humor of a fourteen year old boy--I will laugh at any dick or boob joke that you could possibly tell me, and I doodle pooping hippopatamuses when I should be taking notes in class. I'm no prude when it comes to tasteless genetalia references. Even that being the case, I cannot express in words the numerous ways your hairy rubber balls offend me. I sure will try, though.

You see, Dude, the problem is quite simple: Testicles, especially hairy, blue rubber testicles, are bum-fucking ugly. I know they house your future generation and boy-Howdy are you proud of them, but I am confused at your need to hang a (hugely exaggerated) replica from your trashmobile. I do not need to be reminded that you are in possession of a reproductive system, because it just serves as a depressing reminder that you and your Natural Ice-drinking brethren are one faulty condom away from Fatherhood. But I do have to applaud you for saving many a woman plenty of time by coming right out and saying it: "I am a classless chode and you do not want my testicles anywhere near your naked body."

Rage Recipient #2: A house. An entire fucking HOUSE.

Method of Rage-Disbursement: Pretty self-contained. I loudly took the Lord's name in vain and used variations of the word "fuck" a few times, but mostly I got the hell. Out. The way. After pooping my pants.

This picture just does not capture the full ridiculousness of this scenario. We've all seen manufactured homes being transported, followed by the poor soul driving the truck with the "Wide Load" flashing sign on it, who will be deprived of seeing the horizon for miles and miles. But usually these little houses are CUT IN HALF! Two half-houses, right, cut down the middle lengthwise? So that they can be contained in roughly the space of a traffic lane, maybe a smidge more?

Oh no, not this pompous ass of a house. This house was like, "Bitch, please. I ride in full double-wide style."

Imagine driving on the 205 bridge and encountering AN ENTIRE MOTHERLOVING HOUSE taking up two FULL lanes of traffic. Did I mention this was on a bridge? A bridge I could drive off of, thus losing my LIFE?! And did I mention that I didn't realize this house was taking up two full lanes of traffic until I nearly rear-ended a fucking LIVING ROOM? I don't know about you, but I would not want to live in a home that had been convicted of vehicular manslaughter. "See that hole in the corner of the wall there, Jimmy? That's where our House ran a school bus full of screaming children off the road."

I could go on, about the smoking soccer mom with all those retarded turtle stickers meant to represent her children (Jesus H. Christ, do I hate those things), or the idiot with the muffler so loud and bass so high that my car practically became a giant sex toy being stopped next to him, or the girl who killed her engine five times in a row and made me miss my light.

I could. But honestly, typing the words "hairy blue rubber testicles" and reliving the experience of nearly colliding with a giant traveling house-on-wheels has made me batty. I'm going to go drink copiously and listen to my Offspring CD in the safety of my very own home. Which is on the ground. Where houses belong.

When Elementary School "Field Day" Becomes a Multinational Sporting Event

I have to say, I friggin' love the Olympics. Don't we all, at least a little bit, even if we're wary to admit it? Who didn't weep tears of patriotism when Phelps swam his svelte little booty into the Ass-Kickery Hall of Fame? Who doesn't watch the 100 meter and laugh about how their faces jiggle in slow-motion?

It is the most--only?--multinational and prestigious sporting event on the planet. For a few weeks, we all come together and put aside our sociopolitical differences to join in the most diverse throw-down the world has ever seen.

All that being said, the Olympics are actually bat-shit insane. With the assistance of the always accurate guide to everything in the galaxy, Wikipedia, I will illustrate my point.

First off, HANDBALL. This is not a sexy-time move performed by your girlfriend. It is an Olympic sport. The official Olympics website describes it as a combination of Konigsbergerball and "snatch ball." I am so overwrought with distasteful innuendos, I'm pretty sure I need to register as a sex offender.

The steeplechase. Take a normal, run-around-in-a-circle race, but add in, say, some equestrian obstacles. I tuned into this randomly, as a steeplechasing virgin. I was like, "Oh, sweet, a race. Wait, what? Did they just jump over a hurdle into a giant puddle? Was that on purpose? Are they wearing Aquasocks? Dear god, is the sky still blue?!"

Table Tennis. I cannot actually believe that ping-pong is considered a sport, much less one of Olympic caliber. Olympian Table Tennis Stars, I am only interested in what you're doing if that table you're playing bouncy-ball on has keg-cups full of beer on it. My sincerest apologies to Forrest Gump.

Tug of War!! So now I'm cheating. I'm throwing in a vintage brain-mushingly ridiculous Olympic sport, which was performed from 1900 until 1920, when it was eliminated. That makes sense, because with women's suffrage also comes reasonable sanity. I would actually shit twice and die with total bliss if they reinstated Olympic Tug of War. It truly is the most Neanderthalian battle of who has the bigger penis: a bunch of guys pulling on a rope whilst grunting and making the other team fall over as the winning team cackles and says things like, "Yeah you really smoked my rope, boys!"

Rhythmic Gymnastics. They dress it up with lots of consonants, but in reality this is ladies dancing around a floor with ropes, clubs, hoops and/or ribbons. So basically, what I did at recess in the third grade. But actually, this is one of those things that you watch just so you can justify ranting about how retarded it is, and then once you see it you're like, "Holy fuckin' Moses, this is sweet."

After millions of years spent evolving into modern man from primordial ooze, and after the centuries of political and economic advancements, we can all stand with our crazy, Communist and/or Fascist brethren and compete for shiny things doing something involving ropes and hoops and jumping in puddles. That is fucking awesome. Go Team Earth!!

That One Time I Cried In The Soda Aisle

When I go to the grocery store, there are certain areas I simply gravitate to. It's a force of nature not unlike gravity... the law of physics simply will not allow me to walk past, say... the Economy Wine section of QFC without grabbing a bottle of Yellow Tail. These things I cannot control, and I accept that.

Another thing I cannot leave the grocery store without: Diet A&W. Even if I'm swinging by the store to pick up batteries, Diet A&W must be had. So crisp and delicious, it is the peanut butter to my jelly. The yin to my yang. I cannot maintain karmic Qi unless I leave the grocery store with Diet A&W.

Imagine my gut-wrenching dismay when I walked to the soda aisle and saw THIS:

Okay, seriously? Fuck you, Beverage Loader Guy. I know your job sucks and you probably get paid dick, but must you ruin my life with your cruel, sadistic stocking techniques? "Ahh, who gives a shit," you, Beverage Loader Guy, like mused to yourself, "Who needs Diet A&W? There's regular A&W and Barq's right there. I'll load this sunavabitch like a shit stuck sideways and no one will care."

I CARE!! Beverage Loader Guy, as you apparently don't know, Barq's ain't shit. Those "Barq's Has Bite" commercials? Yeah, if Barq's has bite, it's a gummy bite by a toothless hobo. Regular A&W? Tastes the same as diet, but add the subcutaneous fat settling on my midsection. Drinking Regular A&W is like chasing McTarnahan's Non-Alcoholic Beer with Bacardi 151. It makes no fucking sense.

I have drunkenly admitted to many a shameful thing, but this admission may be the most shameful yet: I did see if that Diet A&W was within arm's reach. It was not. I now know this, along with the entire staff of the QFC Deli, as well as the lady buying Turkey Pepperoni and looking at me with judging eyes.

I learned something today. When you're standing on top of an over-turned shopping basket, body-deep into the top level of the soda display grunting "FUCK!!! I can ALMOST reach it!!", you are within sonar range of Rock Bottom. You may as well check into rehab right now.

Bye, y'all!! See you in 90 days!

My Water Heater Is A Sadistic Douchebag

Picture if you will a beautiful July morning. The air outside is crisp, and the day is ripe with promise! I desire nothing more than to slink into a hot, steaming shower, scrub my hair with yummy-smelling shampoo, shave my legs so I can wear those cute new capris I bought to work, and CARPE DIEM. Alas, things did not go my way.

I get about three minutes of warm water. Then, ice ass cold. Not just lukewarm. So cold I can feel the blood crystallizing in my veins. So cold my complexion rivals that of an Iditarod dog-sled racer on Day 6. Apparently, my pilot light decided to up and blow the fuck out. I jump out of the shower in a state of hypothermia-induced panic and find myself sopping wet, freezing, wrapped in a towel and squatting on concrete in my garage (next to a recycling bin full of way too many wine bottles), reading the instructions on my water heater which are helpfully illustrated with pictures of stick figures dying horrible, flaming deaths. Yeah, this shit CAN'T go wrong.



Long story short, eventually I get the damn thing relit. Rejoice! Hot showers galore! Then, this same thing happens like five more times in two weeks. If I have to rinse out my conditioner with water the same temperature as glacial ice melt again, I'm-a hafta punch a bitch.

So NW Natural gets a call from one angry, shivering-ass cold, shampoo-lathered bitch. Long story short, things don't work out in my favor. Water Heater: 1, Tierney: 0.

This is Chapter One. I am in the midst of Chapter Two, yet to be concluded and to be blogged upon at a later time. In the meantime, I relight my pathetically flaccid, dying pilot light once a day just to heat enough water to bathe a small rodent.

Rest assured, somewhere in the annals of residential, single-family-home Vancouver suburbia, there is a chick who is roughing it. She is unpredictable, armed, and may slit your throat for hot water.

Pity me. And fear me.

To My Bathroom Scale: An Airing Of Grievances

Hi, Bathroom Scale!! I don't know what compelled me to purchase you, place you on the floor of one of the only rooms I get naked in, and step on you repeatedly! You're a frickin' BITCH, and I hate you.

First off, let's address your asscrazy tactic of slowly increasing from a weight of zero and flashing escalatingly high numbers until I cry and cut myself. Is this fucking necessary? With every flutter of "97.9 LBS," my heart swells with delight that my diet of Cherry Garcia and Tillamook Extra Sharp has burned the subcutaneous fat from my body--only to be ripped out and defacated on by YOU, Bathroom Scale! Must you illustrate my failure in pounds to the second decimal? You really have to remind me that I weigh .07 pounds more than I did yesterday?! Did your mother never tell you that she loved you, or do you just have no soul?

Secondly, if I shift my weight and/or place my foot .05 inches to the left (see, Bathroom Scale, I can play the decimal game too!), I gain 9 and a half pounds. This is not possible, and you should study the laws of nature.

Sometimes, Bathroom Scale, you feel compelled to leave me with one word. One cold, erroneously capitalized word: "ErrOr." Are you pontificating on my failure as a human being, or simply displeased with the swift nature of my ability to step from Floor to You? Either way, I want to spit on you.

And lastly, Bathroom Scale: Why must you judge me?? That Snickers Ice Cream Bar was not going to eat itself!! It was desperately crying out from the freezer for me to devour it, and I did the only decent, God-fearing thing I could think of--and that was ripping off it's stiffling, oppresive wrapper with my teeth and swallowing it whole in a fit of glee. You check your attitude at the door, you smug son of a bitch.

Okay, Bathroom Scale, I suppose this is a little formal given the fact that I am about to smash your face with my blowdryer and stomp on you until my feet bleed. Have fun at the Gates of Hell, and tell Satan thank you for giving me The Maury Povich Show.

Moist Hands Emergency

I work at the airport.

I realize better than most the ridiculousness of the security regulations (Lighters? Sure! 4 ounce bottle of lotion to soothe Aunt Marge's dry skin? "CODE RED!! GET THIS WOMAN A ZIPLOCK!!"). Each day, I walk past a sign indicating the Security Level--illustrated by the primary (and some secondary!) colors, just to ensure that people who cannot wipe their own ass are well aware of the terrorist threat. It's Orange today?! Did I mention the broad with the 4 ounce lotion? Orange means, "WATCH OUT FOR THAT CRAZY BITCH."

So, my point being, it is someone in the government's job to ensure that traveling through an airport makes you want to lie in the fetal position and urinate in your pants. That guy is doing a hell of a stand-up job. He has taken this debilitating fear and distributed it like a Ronco Flavor Injector into every square inch of Portland International Airport. Even the LADIES' RESTROOMS.

It's a seemingly typical bathroom. Toilets with beads of water (?) all over the seats, motion-detector faucets that only turn on if you emit infrared rays from your body, and the paper-towel dispenser. But not just any paper towel dispenser. This dispenser, my friends, has a special feature.

It has an Emergency Feed. EMERGENCY! Emergency. Paper. Towel. Feed. I'll give you a second to collect your brains off of the floor.

Please observe that this advisement is also posted in FIVE LANGUAGES. GOD IN HEAVEN!! Is there a troupe of desperately over-moistened Swahilis traveling through PDX that I don't know about? Am I unaware of a wetness-induced bloodrage common amongst non-English-speaking Spaniards? Or has the state of widespread terror in this country expanded to include avoiding wet spots on the waistbands of our Dockers (gasp!! Pass me the smelling salts, lest I faint!!)

And, PRAYTELL, where is the Emergency Feed on the toilet paper dispenser, for all of those who lose control of their bowels after seeing "Emergency Paper Towel Feed" written in Sanskrit characters predating Christ?

If anyone can think of a legitimate emergency that could only be circumvented via one-ply paper towel, please find me immediately. I'll be the one cowered in the corner of the E-Gate terminal gargling bleach.

To The Lady Oozing With Overinflated Sense Of Own Hotness: We Need To Talk.

Hi, Lady! I was working, and you walked into my store. Don't worry, no need to get off your cell phone, or lower your voice below jet engine decibel levels! I have an extraordinary tolerance for rude people. Not to mention I was positively fascinated by your take on what Allison should do about the guy with the backhair who left his boxers in her room. I agree, Lady! She should, like, uhdunno, totally burn them. So clever! Clearly, Lady, you had me at "uhdunno." Since I'm quite fond of you, I'll try to put this nicely:

You need to set your wardrobe aflame. By that I mean, put every item of clothing you own in a steel drum, douse it with gasoline, nail polish remover, Bacardi 151 and any other highly flammable liquid you have in your home, and set that shit on fire. The remnants of this effigy of fashion should be buried far below the Earth's crust, alongside Vanilla Ice's Greatest Hits album and the guy who invented Bacon-flavored Easy Mac.

Now Lady, don't get me wrong. You have the right to wear whatever you please, because this is AMERICA, god damn it. I fully support the right of citizens to strut their stuff in, say, hot pink leggings and an oversized Winnie The Pooh t-shirt purchased at Disneyland in 1995, like the Lady, we'll call her Lady Part Uno, who wandered into my store before you. But, the outfit you wore into my store today, Lady Part Dos, should never have been seen by the eyes of Man.

Okay, Lady, so let's start from the bottom and work our way up:

YOUR SHOES. My oh my, Lady, I never knew they made 3" wedge Jelly sandals. If the year were 1997 and I was looking for an edge over the sluts of my 12-and-up summer camp, I would have rocked the hell out of these. I may have added some Puff Paint though--alas, we are all fallible.

YOUR PANTS!! Oh god, your pants. They are at least four sizes too small, and my soul is crying. Big can be beautiful if Big wears the appropriate pant size. Buying a size eight does not a size eight make.

YOUR SHIRT AND/OR YOUR LACK OF TANK TOP. Okay, Lady, I think I've been pretty tolerant of your shenanigans thus far. The buck stops here, Toots. When you purchase, and wear--IN PUBLIC!!--a blouse with slits on either side that go up to your rib cage, the designer of this shirt is sending you a not-so-subtle message to wear this OVER A TANK TOP. These slits are not flesh curtains. They are not meant to flutter in the breeze, exposing your naked muffin top for all to see. TRUST ME.

YOUR MAKE-UP. White eyeliner? Really? Am I on Candid Camera?

Okay, Lady! I feel better now. Thank you for wandering into my store and loudly not buying anything whilst violating my corneas and offending my paying customers with your exposed and exorbitant flesh! You're hawt!

Dear Kind Sir: I Hope You Got A Blow Job

You inspired my very first Craigslist rave. That is saying a lot.

I was leaving work from the Portland Airport on a Tuesday afternoon at 5:30pm or so. Apparently all of humankind and their respective mothers were also attempting to travel between PDX and I-205 at this particular juncture of time. Normally, on a sunny day such as it was, I would roll down my windows, crank my embarassingly unhip music ("Broadway Today" anyone?), and succumb to the tragedy of slow-moving traffic. But, today was different.

I was in a mother-loving HURRY. There were things to do and dogs to pick up before the $5/minute deadline and my gas light was on and, I swear on all that is holy, changing from a pleasant amber color to a Lucifer-like blazing, urgent red. I flew past the left-turn-only traffic, bypassing a direct and slow route to the north-bound Glen Jackson Bridge, hoping instead to flip a bitch between Shari's and the Clarion Hotel at Holman.

You must have sensed my trepidation. I hope you know I wasn't trying to cheat. Really, I wasn't!! I thought I could pull of the U-ey beside the car wash, but then I remembered the "No Turn On Red" between Holman and the 205 onramp... DAMN! Such a bitch could never be rightfully flipped. These were desperate times, and desperate measures were called for.

Dear, kind Sir, in your modestly murdered-out black Outback, I wasn't even attempting to merge in front of you. I had my eye on the slow-moving diesel Ford monstrosity to your rear. I actually don't even know how you saw my blinker, or anticipated my need to geeyet over. I looked behind my left shoulder, expecting to see cars whizzing past, only to gaze upon your smiling, Oakley-wearing face, waving me on. I smiled widely and said, LOUDLY!, "THANK YOU!!"

I kept you in my rear-view until I exited at Highway 14 East. I want to throw roses at you and kiss you on the mouth.

You made my day.

-The girl in the white VW

PS. Later on this day when I went to Starbucks, my barista was really nice so I left $3 in the tip jar, because you inspired me with your kindness. I hope that very barista gave you a blow job, because then all would be right with the world and I may again believe in God.

The Dinosaur Pontificates on Life

I am old and wise, and you should listen to me:

Tip well. Your server gets taxed 10% on your tab regardless and their job is sucky.And don't forget your pizza delivery person! Gas prices are downright offensive, and Jesus Mary & Joseph, they're bringing hot pizza to your doorstep! Show the love!

Don't waste time at a job that makes you miserable.

The Lakers suck and should die.

Sometimes, a little road rage releases just enough tension to make you feel good again. Thanks, Girl-In-The-Hyundai-Who-Nearly-Killed-Me-While-Putting-On-Mascara!! Sorry I flipped you off. Well, actually I take that back. Flipping you off was wonderful.

Oregon Ducks football rules the school, and yes, I hate Bellotti too.

Douchebag is the funniest word, ever. (Post-Script Edit: Wait, make that chode)

Rap music was single-handedly destroyed by Soulja Boy and his retarded kin. Those who grew up on post-Little-John ("Yeah! Okay!" Are you fucking serious? Kill yourself.) rap should go listen to Biggie and Dre's Chronic 2001 and prepare for their brain to explode.

Smile and say thank you to people who assist you at the store--whatever store that may be--Safeway, American Eagle, Rite Aid, your local Private Lives (I'm not judging). It really does make a difference. Smiling and saying thank you takes minimal effort, and if you can't muster it up, seek therapy.

You should watch the History Channel more often.

Drugs are bad. Trust me, I pay serious dinero to study black tar heroin and methamphetamine. As much as I love you all, I'd rather not see you professionally.

Add a dog to your family. Don't seek perfection as my dog Amos is the cutest god damn thing alive so I already beat you to it.

If you don't return your shopping cart and are not pregnant, ass old, or suffering from a serious physical ailment... JUST EFFING DO IT! Come on! I'm nearly positive you could use the exercise. Oh what, you don't have time? You just went shopping. Get the eff out of town.

Driving the speed limit is dumb. If you have boobs and tear ducts, risk it.

See movies by yourself. Eat so much popcorn doused in Artificial Butter Substance and salt that you have a mitt of sodium and preservatives by the time the credits roll. You will thank yourself.

Get your oil changed. Like, yesterday.

Once in a while, when you're feeling down, go to passiveaggressivenotes. com .. it is glorious.

For that matter, head over to hotchickswithdouchebags. com too.. also glorious.

Tell the people you love that you love them. They need to hear it as much as you do.

Soccer freaking rules.

So does college football.

Alameda Brew Pub has the best beer ever. Go there! It's off Powell in NE Portland, and you get the added benefit of driving past "The G Spot" which is the most depressing strip club I've ever seen.Yay Portland!

Wearing pajama pants and Uggs to the store don't make ya bad.

Credit cards are the devil.

Give yourself permission to find joy in your daily life... even if that takes form in laughing at those durned Emo kids with their ridiculous tapered tight-ass jeans. Bask in the glory of not having been so retarded in your own high school years!

Enjoy turning 23, like I did today! It's not as bad as I thought it would be.