Straight lines are rad, but never when they jibe with latititude and longitude. That seems to be the mindset of Oregonians. I've lived in many places with nicer lawns than the High Desert, and never in one was it trendy to mow from, say, the corner of one's driveway to the opposite corner by the fence.
But paramount in importance is having the greenest lawn on your block. No amount of chemicals is too much for MY lawn, the conformity-minded dooshaholic seems to be thinking, if he's capable of thought.
What is it with the guys here, who fall into the stereotypes every time? Jock douche who lives for sports? Check. Greenest lawn? Well, we've already been over that, but check regardless. Mistreatment or early impregnation of womenfolk? Check.
Duh-er: "Do I have to keep answering these questions, or can I go grill out dinner for the eighth time this week?"
Go ahead, bromide. I'll take mine extra-carcinogenic.
I think I hate my gender.
Pinkwater out.
Sunday, May 10, 2009
Wednesday, October 8, 2008
Are you a duck or a beaver?
Accredit this, y'all: Outside of water sports, Pinkwater is not into sports. But even he knows that in no other state in this great land are the mascots at the biggest schools as hillbilly shitkicker as Oregon's.
And because the unenlightened citizens of this state never leave, never venture out into the wider spaces and bigger cities, they continue to define themselves well into middle age and beyond as "Ducks" or "Beavers," much like a 20-something Dairy Queen employee and on-again, off-again community college matriculation expert defines himself by the Class of 2003 tassle hanging off the rear-view mirror of his slammed Datsun or what have you.
At least Florida has Hurricanes, Gators and Seminoles. Georgia has Bulldogs and Yellow Jackets, which provide nasty bites and stings, respectively.
A duck is something little kids do when something is thrown at them.
A beaver is another word for vagina and its environs.
Are you a duck or a beaver? I honestly couldn't give a shit, and could happily go the rest of my days without hearing some boastful provincial declaring his ardent love for his alma-doesn't-mater.
I know! How about you all eat a big one, and split the difference.
And because the unenlightened citizens of this state never leave, never venture out into the wider spaces and bigger cities, they continue to define themselves well into middle age and beyond as "Ducks" or "Beavers," much like a 20-something Dairy Queen employee and on-again, off-again community college matriculation expert defines himself by the Class of 2003 tassle hanging off the rear-view mirror of his slammed Datsun or what have you.
At least Florida has Hurricanes, Gators and Seminoles. Georgia has Bulldogs and Yellow Jackets, which provide nasty bites and stings, respectively.
A duck is something little kids do when something is thrown at them.
A beaver is another word for vagina and its environs.
Are you a duck or a beaver? I honestly couldn't give a shit, and could happily go the rest of my days without hearing some boastful provincial declaring his ardent love for his alma-doesn't-mater.
I know! How about you all eat a big one, and split the difference.
Monday, September 15, 2008
Backing into parking spaces-slash-electing cretins
You may think ol' Pinkwater is grasping at straws, mocking the backing-into-parking-space thing, but these maroons think they're saving themselves some trouble, or being sporty or, or ...
I don't know. Don't care.
Just watch who's doing it. It's a good measure of class. Heck, they might even have one of those "in memory of" memorial tributes on their rear windshield, which is another post entirely. What's the tribute, people? A sign on a piece of shit SUV? Mmkay ...
Ol' Pinkwater hates the very rich and wants to like the very poor if they were more like the poor you see in movies and not the poor you see at Wal-Mart or Albertson's on a Saturday afternoon.
I think these space-backer-inners are trying to prove what good drivers they are. Uh-huh. You can go backward AND stay in the lines. Oh, let's just cue the applause for you! Your boy Dale Earnhardt woulda been proud.
Sorry. I'm conducting some class warfare because these are the same idjits that are going to try to elect Palin and the same retards that have been fucking up the country for 8 years. Deficit? War? Yay!
Go ahead and vote for Palin. BTW, who's that cadaverous fellow next to her? Why that's John McCain, war hero! Whoop-de-fuckin'-do.
By the way, the rich hate you and are just using you and your knee-jerk patriotism and hatred of abortion to elect people who will turn their back on you so fast it'd make your head spin like your steering wheel as you're pulling out of a spot you've backed into.
I don't know. Don't care.
Just watch who's doing it. It's a good measure of class. Heck, they might even have one of those "in memory of" memorial tributes on their rear windshield, which is another post entirely. What's the tribute, people? A sign on a piece of shit SUV? Mmkay ...
Ol' Pinkwater hates the very rich and wants to like the very poor if they were more like the poor you see in movies and not the poor you see at Wal-Mart or Albertson's on a Saturday afternoon.
I think these space-backer-inners are trying to prove what good drivers they are. Uh-huh. You can go backward AND stay in the lines. Oh, let's just cue the applause for you! Your boy Dale Earnhardt woulda been proud.
Sorry. I'm conducting some class warfare because these are the same idjits that are going to try to elect Palin and the same retards that have been fucking up the country for 8 years. Deficit? War? Yay!
Go ahead and vote for Palin. BTW, who's that cadaverous fellow next to her? Why that's John McCain, war hero! Whoop-de-fuckin'-do.
By the way, the rich hate you and are just using you and your knee-jerk patriotism and hatred of abortion to elect people who will turn their back on you so fast it'd make your head spin like your steering wheel as you're pulling out of a spot you've backed into.
Saturday, July 5, 2008
Blowing stuff up
Yes, knuckle-scraping men the world over can't resist uniting fuse and match. But each July Fourth here in Oregon, I realize the more rural, less urban you are, the more you're all about the fire, crackers.
What gets me is that the thrill of seeing stuff go "Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeee ... pop!" is so exciting to people here, there and everywhere that the most tinder-dry of conditions in the high desert does not faze them for a moment. Let's tune in to an actual conversation that could have taken place once:
"I dunno, Bob, uh, it's pretty dry out here."
"Fuck that, dude. Let's set this on fire and see what it does."
"Cool! Dunno what I was thinking, bro. Fire it up!"
And, thus, we have wildfires. In truth (well truth as related to this blog and as Avi Pinkwater sees it), I'm surprised that forests and ecosystems and what-not that rely on forest fires for their health ever survived without the intervention of man -- and man-made fireworks.
Somewhere, Smoky the Bear is contemplating his next meal. Good thing he's afraid he could catch stupidity from eating humans.
*UPDATE* At 2:45 a.m. last night -- technically, July 6 -- some white trash neighbor or another was shooting off screamers, awaking a sleeping Pinkwater. They, or the spectators they attracted, were even cheering delightedly, because people who are awake and doing this sort of thing in the middle of the night are retarded and will scream with delight at things that go whistling into the sky. I wish debris from space had landed screaming on them. I'd have cheered.
What gets me is that the thrill of seeing stuff go "Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeee ... pop!" is so exciting to people here, there and everywhere that the most tinder-dry of conditions in the high desert does not faze them for a moment. Let's tune in to an actual conversation that could have taken place once:
"I dunno, Bob, uh, it's pretty dry out here."
"Fuck that, dude. Let's set this on fire and see what it does."
"Cool! Dunno what I was thinking, bro. Fire it up!"
And, thus, we have wildfires. In truth (well truth as related to this blog and as Avi Pinkwater sees it), I'm surprised that forests and ecosystems and what-not that rely on forest fires for their health ever survived without the intervention of man -- and man-made fireworks.
Somewhere, Smoky the Bear is contemplating his next meal. Good thing he's afraid he could catch stupidity from eating humans.
*UPDATE* At 2:45 a.m. last night -- technically, July 6 -- some white trash neighbor or another was shooting off screamers, awaking a sleeping Pinkwater. They, or the spectators they attracted, were even cheering delightedly, because people who are awake and doing this sort of thing in the middle of the night are retarded and will scream with delight at things that go whistling into the sky. I wish debris from space had landed screaming on them. I'd have cheered.
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
Appalachian, Celtic and other imported music
Seriously, what is the deal with Oregonians and their love of bluegrass and Celtic music? They're way too tall to be leprechauns, and most of these people don't seem all that Irish.
And bluegrass. Ugh. Honestly, what is there to say? I know you expect more yuks in this blog, but seriously. I can't even get it up to make fun of bluegrass. It's like kryptonite to a guy raised on electric guitars. It's the opposite of awe-inspiring. It's awe-draining.
In terms of music forms that need to be hung up, bluegrass is up there with, sorry purists and Americana lovers, the blues. Boring! By and large, bluegrass band names have to be the least creative since the '90s skatastic ska revival. They love to put "ramblers" in the name, as in "Puke Lovin' Ramblers." Well ramble on, please, away from my ear space.
But the biggest mystery of all is how much Oregonians love Billy Joel. Every one of them owns at least two copies of Glass Houses. They're issued at the hospital, like infant car seats. "Pressure," "Uptown Girl," "River of Dreams" and "Piano Man": You name it, it's blasting from SUVs and hybrids alike.
Not really. Billy Joel is the furthest thing from the collective Oregonian mind, which is basically like one big solid gray lump of damaged brain. (Imagine the biggest wad of gum ever, and that's the collective Oregonian mind.)
Perhaps that's to their detriment.
Say what you will about ol' Billy, the guy could write a hook, and knew when to end a song. As recalled by your boy Avi over here at Stuff Oregonians Like's office, there weren't a lot of fiddles and harps and shit in his music. Plus, he wrote "Only the Good Die Young," and going by his logic, Celtic and bluegrass can't be any good, because they refuse to die.
Pinkwater out, bizitches.
And bluegrass. Ugh. Honestly, what is there to say? I know you expect more yuks in this blog, but seriously. I can't even get it up to make fun of bluegrass. It's like kryptonite to a guy raised on electric guitars. It's the opposite of awe-inspiring. It's awe-draining.
In terms of music forms that need to be hung up, bluegrass is up there with, sorry purists and Americana lovers, the blues. Boring! By and large, bluegrass band names have to be the least creative since the '90s skatastic ska revival. They love to put "ramblers" in the name, as in "Puke Lovin' Ramblers." Well ramble on, please, away from my ear space.
But the biggest mystery of all is how much Oregonians love Billy Joel. Every one of them owns at least two copies of Glass Houses. They're issued at the hospital, like infant car seats. "Pressure," "Uptown Girl," "River of Dreams" and "Piano Man": You name it, it's blasting from SUVs and hybrids alike.
Not really. Billy Joel is the furthest thing from the collective Oregonian mind, which is basically like one big solid gray lump of damaged brain. (Imagine the biggest wad of gum ever, and that's the collective Oregonian mind.)
Perhaps that's to their detriment.
Say what you will about ol' Billy, the guy could write a hook, and knew when to end a song. As recalled by your boy Avi over here at Stuff Oregonians Like's office, there weren't a lot of fiddles and harps and shit in his music. Plus, he wrote "Only the Good Die Young," and going by his logic, Celtic and bluegrass can't be any good, because they refuse to die.
Pinkwater out, bizitches.
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
Saying 'This is paradise'
Admittedly, I haven't heard this one in a while. Probably not since, oh, last fall. The reason for the paradisus interruptus is WINTER LASTS UNTIL JUNE HERE.
Whether native or newcomer, the idjits and beardos love telling you this is paradise. They say it again and again and again, then once more for good measure. They say it so much, with a glint (yes, crazed glint) in their eyes, and eventually you start to question their thinking, and possibly their motives. Are they trying to turn around the real estate mess by blurting out propaganda about paradise so that a visiting passerby might be convinced something that is not true IS true, and buy a still overpriced home?
Worse possibility: They mean it.
A year or two ago, I was talking to a guy who owns his own business in Bend. He'd moved here from Portland, I dunno, three years earlier, let's say.
"Why'd you pick Bend?" I asked.
He made that universal quick exhalation of derision and/or disbelief, "Pff," spread his arms, and said "I mean, look around" like I was the moron here.
That holds no weight for me. (The one about this being paradise; the one about my being a moron has potential.)
If I had any testosterone, I would have said, "That -- can I call it an argument? -- holds no weight for me. Please give me some actual words, brainchild."
It was a sunny day in probably August or so, but unlike the ardent (and forgetful!) fans of this supposed paradise and their head-ringing endorsements, I know another 7-month winter looming when I sense one.
Now this is paradise:
I've actually had the pleasure of living in the continental U.S.'s actual paradise, or the closest thing to it: Miami, Fla. No, not the one you know from TV shows and movies. Well, actually, sorta that, but in addition to gorgeous women, overdevelopment, hurricanes, bugs and mayhem, there are virtual jungles to explore, banyans to climb, mangrove trails to paddle down, and most importantly: all the oranges, mangos, grapefruit and coconuts you'd ever want to pick off your backyard tree and huck at Oregonians who would tell you this place, where the women have hairy legs, is paradise.
Yes, Oregon has mountains and forests and desert. A whole lot of barren-ass desert. Like, at least five times more desert than a place people widely call "paradise" should have.
Brainchild please, don't even talk to me about "the coast." The reason people call it the coast instead of "the beach" is because you don't swim or loiter on the beach. There are frigging seals and sea lions there, people. You don't see that shit at real paradises.
Oregon is so far north and, the part I live in, situated at such a high altitude, that it prevents paradise's prerequisites: Warmth, strong sun and the sonorous sound of palm tree fronds blowing in the wind.
Three other reasons this is not paradise, in case you're not convinced: 1) March, 2) April, and 3) May.
Enjoy the snow, rain and cold, beardos of paradise. The fleece looks great on you.
(Photo of the Miami skyline by BryanSereny via Flickr.)
Whether native or newcomer, the idjits and beardos love telling you this is paradise. They say it again and again and again, then once more for good measure. They say it so much, with a glint (yes, crazed glint) in their eyes, and eventually you start to question their thinking, and possibly their motives. Are they trying to turn around the real estate mess by blurting out propaganda about paradise so that a visiting passerby might be convinced something that is not true IS true, and buy a still overpriced home?
Worse possibility: They mean it.
A year or two ago, I was talking to a guy who owns his own business in Bend. He'd moved here from Portland, I dunno, three years earlier, let's say.
"Why'd you pick Bend?" I asked.
He made that universal quick exhalation of derision and/or disbelief, "Pff," spread his arms, and said "I mean, look around" like I was the moron here.
That holds no weight for me. (The one about this being paradise; the one about my being a moron has potential.)
If I had any testosterone, I would have said, "That -- can I call it an argument? -- holds no weight for me. Please give me some actual words, brainchild."
It was a sunny day in probably August or so, but unlike the ardent (and forgetful!) fans of this supposed paradise and their head-ringing endorsements, I know another 7-month winter looming when I sense one.
Now this is paradise:
I've actually had the pleasure of living in the continental U.S.'s actual paradise, or the closest thing to it: Miami, Fla. No, not the one you know from TV shows and movies. Well, actually, sorta that, but in addition to gorgeous women, overdevelopment, hurricanes, bugs and mayhem, there are virtual jungles to explore, banyans to climb, mangrove trails to paddle down, and most importantly: all the oranges, mangos, grapefruit and coconuts you'd ever want to pick off your backyard tree and huck at Oregonians who would tell you this place, where the women have hairy legs, is paradise.
Yes, Oregon has mountains and forests and desert. A whole lot of barren-ass desert. Like, at least five times more desert than a place people widely call "paradise" should have.
Brainchild please, don't even talk to me about "the coast." The reason people call it the coast instead of "the beach" is because you don't swim or loiter on the beach. There are frigging seals and sea lions there, people. You don't see that shit at real paradises.
Oregon is so far north and, the part I live in, situated at such a high altitude, that it prevents paradise's prerequisites: Warmth, strong sun and the sonorous sound of palm tree fronds blowing in the wind.
Three other reasons this is not paradise, in case you're not convinced: 1) March, 2) April, and 3) May.
Enjoy the snow, rain and cold, beardos of paradise. The fleece looks great on you.
(Photo of the Miami skyline by BryanSereny via Flickr.)
Thursday, June 5, 2008
Hunting
"If you're into pickup trucks
grown men shootin' little ducks
You're probably into drinkin' beer,
collecting guns and killing deer"
-"Lucho Lucholo," by Minimum Wage
I was walking when I saw a deer cross my path this morning. I'm nobody's hippie, but it was a quiet moment. Tranquil even. The deer saw me and worriedly trotted toward a bus stop full of middle-school types.
This being Oregon, and my mind working the way it does, I wondered how many of the mini hillbillies wished they had their pa's Smith & Wesson 38-caliber Glock rifle -- der! That's right, I'm making fun of guns! -- as the confused deer wandered into their neighborhood.
I know the defense, the logic, the received wisdom of hunters. Somehow, in spite of these guys' love of bulk Costco shopping, they still fancy themselves frontier-living trappers --the scrappy forebears who paved the way for the westward hos.
But you don't NEED to do it for survival. They kinda did. And I don't buy the argument that it helps winnow down the deer population. The grills of long-haul trucks seem to be doing a fine job of that.
Above all, it doesn't really matter to me why you do it, whether for sport or food. It's that I can't imagine the mind that wants to kill something, whether for sport or food. And I'm not a vegetarian -- I just recognize and accept that there's a different system in place that works well enough if I don't think too much about it. I know, I know. I'm weak. Spare me the lecture, Mr. Nugent.
Enough about me. Most of the hunters I've talked to seem like they have a little too much testosterone coursing through their chubby limbs. And what's with the dumb stickers of deer with big racks (the bad kind, not the awesome booby kind) on your F350s?
Are you advertising your "sport" for your fellow Neanderthals, or is it like a faux-Native-American-appreciation-of-the-thing-which-you-consume posture? If the latter, then why don't you go ahead and paste on stickers of beef jerky and oil barrels too?
I'm sure many hunters' rationalize killing deer for the freezer full of venison they'll have. Yeah? Well, if venison is so effing good, why is there not a bunch of it on special in the deli section of Albertson's, Safeway or Ray's along with all the other meats?
Here's why not: Because venison is a gamy, gross meat that, upon consuming, lowers your IQ and makes your womenfolk hairy and mole-ridden (judging purely on looks).
(Decal from www.cafepress.com/noveltystuff)
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