Orin Starr, Citizens Ashamed of The Nest

Local activist and Lesbian swinger Orin Starr leading a group of anti-rude bingo night protesters outside of "The Nest" a bar in Portland, Oregon.

When most people think of bars in Portland Oregon good times and good beer come to mind. Even The Nest, Alberta street’s hot-spot for local well dressed liberals such as Orin Starr has been known for it’s comfortable atmosphere, cheap beer, and loud music set against a backdrop of fine rotating artwork curated by local celebrity Chris Haberman. What happens, though, when a local hangout, once a meeting point for well-cologned, high-class hipsters goes south? It becomes a Mecca for disgusting, disturbing, delusional,  racist, sexist, classist and homophobic outcries of slander and distaste masked by the power of the First Amendment.

On Sunday May 8th, 2011 Orin Starr entered The Nest like he does every other day of the week, hopped up on anti-depressents and exhausted after a long hard day of customer service at a local Co-Op. What did he want? He wanted what every other person in the bar wanted that night: a beer and an atmosphere that allowed him the opportunity to peep some fresh female clam as they say. What did he get, you ask? A first hand lesson in freedom of speech! Quietly enjoying his drink, Orin and his wingman for the night couldn’t help but notice it was Bingo Night, but what they failed to recognize was the well-posted and immediately visible signs stating “Sunday night at The Nest is we get to say what ever the fuck we want bingo night”. That’s right, readers, it was Rude Bingo Night.

After listening to the guy at the microphone berate gentle folks waiting for the bathroom with malicious slanderous comments, Orin turned to his wingman (a person who intelligently chooses to remain anonymous) and says, “Fuck this piece of shit with his whole I have a beard and balls attitude, I’m gonna fuck his shit up!” Orin’s wingman, Christianly as a kitten’s vagina, chose to turn the other cheek and ignore the barrage of bingo inspired insults, and quietly sipped his or her beer. Orin, however, could not just sit by while the ears of decent folks everywhere were subjected to  such harsh and vile abuse, and cried out, “Hey dumb fuckin’ dick for brains! This is Portland! We don’t hurt people’s feelings here you fucking piece of shit!”

Unfortunately Orin had no idea what he had gotten himself into. Being that he had completely ignored the well-posted signs describing the event of the evening in clear and vivid detail, the man-bear at the microphone took this as someone wanting to play along with the evening’s festivities, and really gave Orin a piece of his mind…. (Here at PortlandCityArt.com we strive ourselves to bring you up to date slanderous bullshit without censorship ,but the words exchanged in that moment at the bar were so degrading and shameful that even WE couldn’t stomach printing them in this article…….) Once the extended exchange of poetic hate had come down from its’ inevitable climax, Orin turned to the bartender to complain. The bartender ,though, had only this to say: “Bitch, put a dick in it!”

Disgusted by the entire situation and distraught by the not so sensitive energy at the bar, Orin fell victim to the violence and unleashed a flurry of ice cubes in the direction of Mr. Rude Bingo. A fist fight soon broke out, bottles were smashed, Starr’s friend was dragged from the bar by his or her front-facing ponytail and Orin, well… he was later found bloodied and hunching over in the alley like a lump of used dog shit (as opposed to brand new dog shit, straight from the ass).

Customers at the bar refused to comment on the situation, and even Portland’s finest were not able to get a statement regarding the scene of events that unfolded that evening. Was Orin Starr an unsuspecting victim of a hate crime or just a mild mannered customer pushed to the edge of violent rage by a tasteless lower then human life form holding the mic that night? Is this what our fair city is coming to? Bars that once housed the meek and sensitive now playgrounds for dirty mouthed trash talkers with a taste for violence against she-men? Is the first amendment really that important? Did Portland lose its sense of humor? Did it ever HAVE a sense of humor? Whatever the reason, whatever the justification, Portland has failed in the eyes of its’ citizens, and The Nest is the thorn that continues to break the CIty of Rose’s back.

 

The Mystery of the Dirty Underwear!

Oh seriously!  Dirty Underwear! I love dirty Underwear! What about dirty Underwood. Oh really now, no not the country singer but the country singee in my pants.. Really now. I was taking my eveing bath. Oh for real now evening bath…Can I laugh out loud! LOL! There we go, seriously I was scrubbing last nights excriment from my underside when I noticed a pair of dirty underwear on my bathroom floor. O.k. the floor of the gas station down the street to the office but still I use that place all the time. What a disgrace! Really now, o.k. I picked them up… I know I know. .Tan, what the hell did you do that for! Seriously though some of my drink had spilled onto them and I wanted to squeeze out what I could.. Oh really now this is nasty I know.. So I squeezed and I giant brown ice cube fell into my glass!!!!!! Really now I smiled in awe. God was looking out for me. He sent a frozen chocalte ice cube down from heaven to adorn my glass of liquor with.. What a guy, or thing or cosmic being, whatever. It was awesome, like when I said my ex wifes name while trying to find my other ex wifes box…. Oh really now speaking of box my ex wife had one but it was never hot… Oh seriously… So back to my chocolate ice cube. It ws delicious!!! Really like a summer treat! So I’m on the look out for the kind being that left those dirty underwear in the bathroom. Anyone? Anyone? Did you know it was a vessel for the lords bidding…? Of course you did1 Seriously chocolate ice cube giver send me wears, more of them my drink is getting warm and the chocolate is melting into a gooshy, mooshy sea of yummy mess. I must keep this Gin cold….

Tan Peluski is a Rat Bastard

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There’s been a lot of talk lately about what a rat bastard my ex-husband, Tan Peluski, is. Well, I’m here to tell you that you don’t know the half of it.

Tan Peluski is the type of guy who wouldn’t think twice about fingering your grandma when nobody’s looking. He’s the kind of asshole that takes you to Sizzler for steaks and when the food comes he plucks one of his own pubes, drops it into the mashed potatoes and then refuses to pay. We all know that his jokes aren’t funny, that his breath smells like canned cat food and he’s such an outrageous alcoholic that he practically pisses 151. I say practically because I’ve tasted it, and it does not taste the same. It will, however, get you wicked fucked up.

You might ask yourself how a piece of work like Tan managed to get married once, let alone seventeen times. As wife number five, I can tell you that whiskey and vodka are two of the biggest contributing factors. Might have been the Vicodin too. Not to mention Tan has really amazing testicles.

Fantastic. Testicles.

And I don’t mean he’s brave or courageous. I mean he has some very attractive testicles. Perfectly sized, balanced and fuzzy; like two sweet little nectarines in a velvet pouch. The kind you want to rub your cheek up against.

But don’t get me wrong. His cock is worthless. About as worthless as porpoise on Quaaludes. Come to think of it, it looks a lot like a porpoise on Quaaludes. A blind, porpoise on Quaaludes ramming up against your inner thigh until it just sort of rolls over and gives up.

Yeah, but I didn’t come here to humiliate Tan. Well, not entirely. I also wanted to write about the other side of Tan, one that rarely gets talked about. I’m talking about the Tan Peluski who takes time out of his busy schedule of drinking and insulting strangers to dress up every Christmas like Santa Claus and visit trailer parks across Portland. You might have heard of the Trailer Park Santas? Yeah, he’s started that program. They’re a registered non-profit organization and to be honest with you when I heard that he started a charity my first thought was, tax scam. But I’ll be damned if that old crusty piece of dried up puke doesn’t actually go out and spend time with those lousy rugrats. I know because I’ve seen him do it.

Ok, he does smell like an old moldy shoe, but it’s not like those snot-nose little bastards know the difference. Most of them are strung out on Ramen noodles and second hand smoke anyway.

So my ex-husband, the impotent, alcoholic, foul-mouthed, racist, ugly piece of shit that he is, dons a festive rented Santa suit and invites little kids and attractive teenage girls to sit on his lap and experience the beautiful fucking magic of asking Santa Claus for a gift. And you know, it’s just pathetic and heartbreaking to hear the things they ask for. Sticks of gum. Shoe polish. Crack cocaine. It’s just sad.

Of course, that’s the thing that makes Tan special. Tan understands disappointment. He understands rock bottom, and the thing that I respect about him is he doesn’t lie to those kids. He doesn’t tell them that they’ll actually get their presents and he sure doesn’t tell them that they’re bad.

Except the ones that want crack and weapons, but the rest of them, they’re good kids.

So Tan tells the good ones that Santa can’t bring them presents because they’re little trailer houses don’t have chimneys. Isn’t that sweet?

Sobering Thoughts

Wow, folks. The Man About Town got hit hard this morning. Got a phone call from the doctor. Seems old Tanus Peluski here is exactly one shot of whiskey short of a brain hemorrhage. “The next drop will kill you instantly,” is the way he put it. Now, I don’t know about you guys, but whiskey is the blood of Christ in my book. I don’t even have a book. Been doing this drunken journalism thing for a long, long time. Not a thing to show for it. Not even a computer to type this on. I’m writing it down on a sheet of photocopy paper that I stole from Kinko’s, sorry, FedEx Office. Paper that is still slightly damp from my tears and a brief moment of phlegm.

She was 74, had the heart of a gorilla, and a shrill laugh like a harpy. That was my first ex-wife, and I was 30 years her junior. Made a man out of me, that is, made me pay for everything without promise of sex. My first non-whore. I learned a few things the hard way, folks. Being married to her was a lot like having a pair of barely-working kidneys. Every time it hurts when I pee, I think of her. In other words, every time I pee. In addition to unexplained rashes, doctor assisted heart attacks, and brown teeth, she also introduced me to whiskey. Old Crow was her brand. Still, though, sitting here having sober thoughts, I realize that it was not her fault I became a drunk. It was whoever invented whiskey’s fault.

Then again, my Doctor has been wrong before. He said I’d never have another erection once, and wallah! Viagra! Now I just need to wait for the Viagra of drinking problems. Here’s what apparently qualifies as quality health care these days for those of us without considerate employers.

Me: Hey, Doc, here’s my wallet. Please take everything I have, and bill me for more in a few weeks.

Doc: Drop the trousers and show me your ass.

Me: Seriously?

Doc: Don’t worry, I’m wearing a glove.

Me: Mother of Mary, I think you put it in too far!

Doc: Stop moving around!

Me: This is rape, you know, rape! Won’t you at least hold me?

Doc: Whoomp, there it is!

Me: I can taste your hand on my tongue.

Doc: Peluski, you can never drink whiskey again.

Me: Say it ain’t so, doc!

Doc: The next drop will kill you instantly!

Me: Does your finger really need to still be up my ass for this conversation?

Please, anyone that is out there listening. Tan Peluski can not go on without whiskey. Might as well just give up right now! But, see, the Man About Town is calling out for a miracle. Please, someone, anyone out there. If you are smart and good with chemicals, please dear god invent a pill that will let me drink whiskey again! I’m begging you, I swear on everything I hold dear and sacred that if I could just drink whiskey again I will change my ways as a person. I will stop marrying and divorcing twice a year, I will settle down, have some kids, maybe finish that book I never have time to write. Tell the whole world what’s going on, break it down for them. Oh, sweet Jesus, I swear it, I’ll run for Portland Mayor if you don’t give me back my whiskey! I’ll make life miserable for everyone! Give me whiskey, and I will leave the people out of it. Tan the Tomorrow Man Peluski for Mayor of Portland. You don’t want that, but I’m here to give it to you.

You can avoid all of this by inventing a blue (or other colored) pill that allows me to drink whiskey without meeting my own death. Otherwise: Vote for Tan. This is not a threat, this is a negotiation. You do not want any more of this sober Tan Peluski thing. Just trust me, you like me better as a drunken failure, help me be that again. I don’t want to have to win the mayorial race against Sam Adams next year. That will be a lot of work. Actually, it probably wouldn’t be that much work. Whiskey. Whiskey. Give me my whiskey. Or I will give you my best. Thank you, and God Bless.