Sorry for the delay friends. Made it through the spring without ending up in jail, rehab or a mental hospital. Two weeks ago I said goodbye to cursing out slutty hobags who hopped a train from Trenton, New Jersey to walk the streets of Connecticut and hello to cursing out classy hos in four wheel pick up trucks from Molalla, eating flaming hot cheetos, pulling out in front of me, without thinking twice. Since I left the east coast for the summer the streets are a little bit safer, so it’s a good time to pick up my bong, my childin’, and my pleather pants or leather pants if I was hanging out with my Ratt and Dokken friends from 8th grade, and move to Oregon. I am mostly doing this because I need a change, but I am really doing this because I want a weed card for medicinal purposes or God forgive me, Washington State is just across the river, not that I have a problem with Washington State, just Vancouver, Washington. I have some vague, drunk, blacked-out memories from Vancouver, Washington. Folks, I just couldn’t resist Burgerville USA’s special sauce, the artisan “Kat Treez” sold down the street from my house, the first-class, white trash, shirtless males on the street and standing proudly on top of the bus stop in “mountain pose,” bearded men with beautiful stems in lace dresses and hipsters standing for hours in line for some sweet ho biscuits. Now folks, I included a map for educational purposes only because I know that you have no idea where in God’s name Oregon is located. Most people out east think that there is no running water, it’s freezing cold and that state of Oregon is located in the midwestern United States.
Most friends were like, why would you want to leave the east coast and lose out on your fast-paced, dynamic lifestyle. First off, why do I have friends that say things like, “fast-paced, dynamic life style?” I would like to believe that they don’t want to see me leave, but the only thing dynamic about me is how I troll the internet for celebrity trash cultural news updates, watch Full House reruns, and eat tortilla chips hecho en Mexico in my bra and underwear, in my tiny apartment that would cost the price of a mortgage for a penthouse in the pink towers in the Northwest. But you know, maybe my friends are right, I mean what in sweet Jesus’s name will I do if I walk down the street and I see a mountain man carrying a bedazzling, swarovski-crystal, decorated saber or some hippie in a drum circle smoking the good stuff and eating red vines?
Maybe this moving back west is not what it’s cracked up to be. When I first watched the IFC television show Portlandia, starring Carrie Brownstein and Fred Armisen, I thought I should dig out my journals from my child hood that I may have burned or tried to black out from my memory. I mean I could do this, why don’t I write the great American novel, but that fleeting, ambitious thought vanished almost immediately, like a bacon and maple Voodoo donut placed in front of me. I took a swig of my moonshine, sucked on my bong and the thought flew away into the abyss and space in between my weed soaked and brainless mind. I mean I am way too lazy to do something like that. So I just thought I would catch up on some episodes to relive my glory years in glorious Portland, Oregon. Land of the butt rockers getting naked and drunk at high school bon fires, trust funder, hippie tree people with puppy dogs on strings begging for diaper money, and artisan “Kat Treez” makers at the local farmer’s market. Shit like this make me feel so excited and alive that my tatas and my butt tingle at the same time! It makes me want to celebrity stalk my rock star crushes in Seattle, Washington, because all the rock star men in bands in Oregon were real douchbags, OD’d or married, which would make me a true Angelina Jolie home wrecker. Anyhoodle, I will sleep with some whores, ruin some marriages and smoke some sweet mary jane. If I ever act like this, please kidnap my ass, throw me in the trunk of your car, speed to the airport in the HOV lanes and throw my ass in an animal crate and put me on a plane in the luggage compartment with the other kiddies that parents throw in there. I’m dreaming of the 90s sweet hos! So watch out Oregon, get your bongs ready because here I come.