I just don’t know about our neighbors to the south anymore…

Last week I took Amtrak down there to see my brother in SE Portland.  I guess Portland borrowed the “keep Portland weird” thing from Austin, but Austin has to be normal compared to the city of loonies that is the Portland metropolitan area these days.

I don’t know why that Max-O-Matic electric rail system always announces, “You must move from the priority seating area for seniors and people with disabilities.”  I mean, maybe changing the wording a bit will resolve the issues, but the way things stand the announcement is causing way too many problems.

First it was the mad woman who claimed to be Rosa Parks, despite the fact that the woman is white and Rosa has been gone since 2005.  I don’t know if anyone has noticed the popularity of what I call Moulin Rouge style among some young people, but the Madwoman exaggerates whore design to a whole new level:  I think she went to the Coast, acquired a worn out drag net, then had it shredded into some kind of bodysuit.  

Bozo’s makeup looks modest compared to the copious quantities burying the woman’s epidermis.  She must have been in prison for a while, if the amateur, poorly executed body tattoos are indicative of such things.  But it’s the wild wide eyes set in the center of that tangle of grayed red hair that I like the best.  That and the oddly deranged smile she just keeps giving.

Anyway, the woman is sitting there in the priority seating area, listening to loud, raucous music, smoking and occasionally scratching at orifices when a guy in a wheelchair needs the location she’s in.  It’s obvious that the man is severely disabled – probably the result of auto culture error – as he was in an automated chair.  Still, like my brother, the man doesn’t let his predicament bring him down, or he doesn’t let it show if it does. The disabled man wheeled off the platform, over the ramp and into the priority seating area where he looked at the loony lady with a bewildered stare before politely asking her to move so he’d have a place to put his chair. 

The woman took a long, deep drag off her fag (cigarette), exhaling it into the man’s face before a deep, scratchy rasp drawled, “I ain’t  movin’ for no white trash, ‘ho’ fuckin,’ honky shit snacker anytime soon, in any place!”

The man stared at the woman, somewhat taken aback by her demeanor, but still polite as he replied, “But lady, I need this space for my chair or I’ll have to block the aisle.  Will you please move?  There are lots of other seats you can use.”

The woman barked back vehemently, “You fuckin’ GILF’er!  I am sick and tired of nasty ol’ butthorn honkin’ honkys askin’ me to give up my seat!”

(Note:  I checked a slang dictionary to learn that GILF is an acronym that stands for grandmother – or grandfather – I’d like to f—.  Also, butthorn honking is a reference to emitting gasses past the rectal sphincter into the immediate atmosphere, or farting)

The man looked at the woman with an expression of genuine confusion, then stated, with some exasperation that carried a tone of patience, “Lady, I’m sorry to be the one to tell you, but you’re not Rosa Parks.  That great woman died nearly six years ago, and you’re not black.”

Lighting another smoke while texting something to some poor soul, the woman eyed the man suspiciously, took another deep drag, then exhaled it into the clean-cut, well-dressed man’s face before yelling in her rasp, Fuck you Mr. Racist Pig!

By this time a few folk on the train had gathered around the spectacle, some munching popcorn and drinking soda, although one bumesque man was drinking a beer while laughing too loud and too often.  The nice man with the disability just couldn’t take it any longer as he backed his chair up while the crowd started softly chanting “Jerry, Jerry, Jerry…!”

The witchy one went on, “Besides, don’t you listen to the announcements white boy; we are “required to remove seniors and people with disabilities from the priority seating area.”

That’s when the operator of the Max-O-Matic came onto the intercom system saying that he was aware of the disturbance in the car, but he was tired of dealing with BOF’s (transit personnel slang for Bags of Feces, or passengers)   “You’re on your own folks!  This job just isn’t worth dealing with you shitbags on a daily basis.  Fuck it!  I’m getting medicated!” 

The Jerry chant rang a bit louder through the car as the nice man in the chair snapped, backing as far from Witchy One as he could before racing the chair into her lower legs while she kept screaming about butthorn honkin’ racists.  That’s when the locally famous Butthorn Blues Band (B3) entered at a stop.  The band plays music similar to Dixieland, but with the added touch of butthorns.  You see, these are patients who suffer the nearly universal qualifying condition known as existential dysphoria, or ED.  The band eats lots of medicated bean burritos, chili and bean salads so they can play, emitting clouds of medicated gas into the venues they haunt.

The scene mellowed, most BOF’s thinking that the Witchy One deserved her ramming.  The woman fell forward as the foot rests on the chair struck her shin.  As she fell forward she hit her head on one of the armrests on the chair.  Unconscious, her head landed in the nice man’s lap, where it lay when the Magnificent One entered the car a couple of stops after B3.

The chanting stopped as MedBud Mama’s glittering emerald eyes scanned the scene like Venus might look upon an orgy, a bit disgusted with human nature, but somewhat tolerant of our failings.  Awed by the incredibly gorgeous giant of a woman, the crowd made room as she removed her beautiful hemp fabric, ganja patterned moo moo, revealing exquisite skin that radiated the health that comes from the MedTree of Life and Purple Panacea.  Mama, as she does, lay down upon her back on the floor, instructing a uniformed policeman in the crowd to bring the woman.  Mama took a vial of kief from the revered strain out of her medicine bag, pouring it into her navel.  The woman’s head lay, still unconscious, on Mama’s voluptuous bosom until she regained consciousness and began eagerly lapping from Mama’s navel.  The crowd cheered as Witchy One fully recovered, becoming a really nice person like the guy in the chair, who she ended up leaving with.

(A note from the author:  I apologize to my two readers for this sick compulsion to express what’s in my head, but I just can’t seem to stop myself.  Fortunately, I’m working toward changing my behaviors and have begun getting up at dawn to absolve this sin by placing my head in the toilet.  The absolution started as kind of a nice whirlpool swirly with some, fragrant, refreshing shampoo.  Throughout the day, whenever I feel compelled to write, I head for the bathroom, hoping to associate my head in the toilet with writing, thereby increasing my will to stop.  But I’ve found the Jacuzzi action to be too pleasant and tend to write more.

Luckily the bathrooms at the office building I work at have provided a solution. The rooms have those powerful toilets – not regular toilets, but those commercial blasters that I’m sure you’re familiar with.  The first time that I used one I put my head in the toilet, pulled the lever, then tried to scream as the top of my head sucked into the bottom of the bowl, blocking the flow and overflowing while I started gurgling and kicking my feet in the air.&n
bsp; That’s how my boss found me – standing on my head in the toilet with arms and legs flailing.  He’s the boss because he thinks quickly.  The man grabbed a length of hose that happened to be lying there, shoving one end into my submerged mouth as a kind of snorkel.  He tried to free the top of my head, which was in a lot of pain from the pressure, but ended up calling emergency personnel on his cellular phone while many of my coworkers began gathering around.  Just before the emergency personnel arrived, the office clown shoved the other end of the oxygen supply into my rectum.  So I had to breathe methane for a few minutes, but I survived without too much more brain damage than I had before that accident.

The incident was pretty embarrassing, and I don’t like my new office nickname, “Snorkler,” but at least I’m alive, if not too respected at work these days.  Anyway, I’m still working toward my goal of not subjecting anyone to any more of these writing attempts; but it’s not easy!

Psychologist Dr. Spanker is treating me for the OCD that causes me to write so much, but he’s a patient too, suffering from the qualifying condition known as MAD, or masturbation addiction disorder.  He also suffers from a common affliction among physicians, which is ODD, or obsessive diagnosis disorder.  Fortunately, I don’t have health insurance, so he has only diagnosed me with a couple of disorders.  Patients with good insurance are often diagnosed with dozens of afflictions and prescribed piles of patent pills.

Dr. Spanker has me lay on the bed in the bedroom beside his office so he can do his psychoanalysis, but he always seems distracted while listening from behind his desk.  He keeps medical notes on a laptop that has kind of a nasty screensaver on it.  I don’t know why he starts sweating during our sessions.  Maybe treating my condition stresses him out because he kind of shakes and gyrates while taking notes.  Dr. Spanker must like pastries because there’s always a lot of sticky, gooey frosting on his desk after our sessions.

Well… I have to go to the bathroom.  Hopefully you will not find any more of this nonsense here anytime soon, but my treatment isn’t finished yet.  MedBud Mama says that it may be chronic and I should increase my medication and add some medshrooms.  I’m just not too sure…)