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Homeward Bound... and Gagged
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Homeward Bound... and Gagged

Back from Portland and I have to say that I never truly comprehend just what a worthless shit-hole of a town I live in until I travel. Holy fuckstain. Every goddamn block in that town is an embarrassment of riches -- restaurants, food trucks, galleries, book stores, gluten-free bakeries, hemp refineries, hair salons specifically catering to rich white kids with dreadlocks, there's a patchouli river that courses through the city, and there are vegan gumdrops made with unbleached spelt and sweetened with agave nectar that rain down from the skies.

Here, we have Old Country Barfet.

I'm ready to move. My bag is packed. (Also, my luggage is filled with my belongings. Hello.) All we need is for a professorin' gig to open up at Portland State and we're there. Sure, the spawnage flip their collective lid every time we mention moving, but they'll get over it. Moving never killed anybody. You know who moved a lot as a child, according to Google? Tupac Shakur. And look how he turned out. Shit, he just performed at a concert as a hologram! The spawnage love holograms!

Anywhich, the trip was great. I don't feel like blathering on about all that we did, so I'll sum it all up in three bullet points:

We went here.
I got Chicken 'n' Waffles from a food cart.
Miss O almost sharted at an outdoor festival.

Now if that's not a successful vacation, then I don't know what is. Of course, we fucked it all up by taking the brown-eye home on Monday morning. Or is that the "red-eye"? Whatever it is, it sure felt like the brown-eye. And now it's all just a distant memory... like "The Wire" or "my eyebrows."

Five bucks says I could even buy a set of goat hair eyebrow merkins from one of the many Alternative Body Hair Toupee vendors roaming the streets of Portland. Stupid Portland.