Archives For Humor

penis enlarger


This is one of the most sought after subjects on the Internet, so I thought I’d ask renowned humorist, Rodney Lacroix, about it. We also talked about his latest book, “Romantic As Hell.”


Samara: Your book was really funny. It might have been the peyote I ate, but I’m pretty sure I would have laughed anyway. How do you manage to be so funny?

Rodney: I’m an only child so I’ve had plenty of time to myself growing up. This usually meant I was either perfecting my comic timing or fondling my genitalia while staring at my Dallas Cowboys Cheerleaders poster. Or both. My upbringing was mainly just me alone in my room trying to make pictures laugh so I could get a boner, essentially.


Samara: I love the cave man scene. How can I get a man to cover me in pine needles, a dead sloth, and feces?

Rodney: I’m pretty sure you’d just have to ask. Guys will do anything to get laid.


Samara: Of the five “typical romantic” gifts, JEWELRY. That is all. It’s not even a question, just give me jewelry.

Rodney: I’m okay with giving a woman jewelry if it’s just not, like, “Oh..I’ll just get her earrings because (a) I can’t think of anything else and (b) I’m pretty sure she has ears.” I’m also okay if the jewelry she wants is a pearl necklace because I know you write about a lot of sex stuff so this answer seems to fit in with your modus operandi (which is Latin for ‘labia,’ FYI).


Samara: Thank you for letting men know that a vacuum cleaner is not a present. However, I DO believe that lawn equipment is a suitable gift for a man. Am I sexist? ‘Happy Father’s Day, now go do yard work!’

Rodney: There are probably guys out there who are, like, “OH MAN SHE GOT ME THE BEST WEED WHACKER FOR MY BIRTHDAY” but I am not one of those guys. I don’t enjoy yard work or cutting shit up or hunting Sasquatch so shit like that isn’t for me. I used to get power screwdrivers all the time as gifts. I currently own 37 power screwdrivers.


Samara: You write that men are powerless against the “bitten lip” technique. Any picture I’ve taken of myself biting my bottom lip makes me look like a stroke victim. What am I doing wrong?

Rodney: You’re supposed to bite the guy’s lip. Seriously, it’s like I have to tell you everything.


Samara: You tell the story of dating a girl in high school who was missing her pinky finger and you didn’t even notice.

Does Kerri have all 10 fingers? Are you SURE?

Rodney: I’m pretty sure Kerri has all ten fingers.

I’m mostly sure Kerri has all ten fingers.


Great. Now I have to go check. Sonofabitch.


Samara: You were getting a couples’ massage with Kerri, and you “farted away a boner.” That’s fascinating. For the sake of science, can you please elaborate?

Rodney: I’m 47. Erections at this point are hard to come by.

I’ll give you a moment with that one.

I also have adult ADD which means anything I’m focusing on like sex, maintaining a boner, maintaining a boner during sex, making a sandwich, the plot of any single episode of Game of Thrones, etc. can be gone in a flash if my attention is dragged elsewhere. So, for me, a fart completely deflating my manhood isn’t out of the question.

Also, “Deflating My Manhood” sounds like it would be a Kenny G single.

Ah. You’ve witnessed my ADD in action right there.


Samara: You and Kerri honeymooned in Vegas. That story had poop in it. Lots of poop, everywhere. Just wanted you know how disgusting that was.


Omg thanks for fucking reminding me now I have to go shower OMG THE SHOWER HAD POOP IN IT TOO. I hate you right now so much, FYI.


Kerri and Rodney Navy

Rare photo of Rodney and Kerri

Samara: Were you and Kerri in the Navy together?

Rodney: No, but [insert semen joke here].


Samara: The chapter where you are trying to make Kerri an elaborate gift spelling out the word “LOVE” and you’re exhausted after the first two letters, and decide to nickname her “LO” so you can just be done – that was one of my favorite parts.  I thought I’d share that with my readers.


Rodney: Hey, Lo

Kerri: The hell?

Rodney: I’m going to call you “Lo” from now on because I like you on the down, Lo.

Kerri: No you won’t call me that at all.

Rodney: Sometimes I wish she’d just play the hell along to make my life easier. This was not one of those times, sadly. That actually would have been a good nickname, too.

“How about getting on the down Lo.” See? Works on several levels ( works on two levels).


Samara: Kerri made you an actual book for Valentine’s Day one year. Was that really necessary? I usually just gave my husband blow jobs. Pretty much for all occasions – his birthday, New Year’s Eve, Columbus Day, the Jewish holiday Tu B’Shevat…

Maybe that’s why we’re divorced? Wait, what?

Rodney: I think Kerri felt the need to try to keep up at that point, I think. That being said, she obviously puts up with a LOT of shit as you can well imagine so I never fault her for giving me ANOTHER POWER SCREWDRIVER JESUS CHRIST ARE YOU KIDDING ME.

Wait. Back to the blowjob comment. Are you suggesting you only saved them for holidays? THAT’S why you’re divorced. If I had to wait for a holiday for every BJ I’d be Googling “National Holidays” all the time.

“Hey honeeeeyy…did you know it’s National Drink Water Day?”

[drops pants]


[loses boner]


Story of my life.



Rodney loves to make jokes about how small his penis is, so he provided NO insight as to how to make your penis bigger. I searched it on Lady Google but MY GOD trust me, you don’t want me to share.

I really don’t know if he’s joking about his penis, since he’s one of the few men on the Internet who hasn’t sent me a dick pic.

You can buy Rodney’s books (and please do, so he doesn’t have to keep giving his wife handmade gifts) here:

Publisher’s Website (signed copies available from here) :

Amazon Author Page:


Follow Rodney (don’t let life get in the way of social media):





Rodney Lacroix is just one of those guys. He’s one of those guys that make you say, “You know, I’m glad I’m not THAT guy.”

Rodney Lacroix lives in southern New Hampshire. He is the proud biological father of two amazing children and step-ological father of two stepamazing stepchildren.
He also likes to invent terms.

Rodney Lacroix has been writing about his misadventures for years. He’s done stand-up comedy, emceed charity events and has hung out with many celebrities. He is worshipped in most third-world countries and is known as “El Chupacabra.’ Perhaps you’ve heard of him.

Maybe you shouldn’t believe anything he says. DO read his books, though. He’s hysterical.


Do you know Rodney? Don’t you wish you did? Have you ever heard of farting away a boner?
Talk to me. I’m listening. If you buy me jewelry, that is.



Are your days jam packed with kids and work, avoiding the gym, and maintaining your drinking habit?  Don’t let your beauty routine drag you down!

Even if you’re as busy as a one-legged man in an ass-kissing contest, you still need to look good, right?

After all, none of our accomplishments matter if we’re not pretty!



Women are always trying to achieve beautiful hair on what’s known as “second day” hair; or in my case, “sixth day” hair. The best way to achieve this is to NOT LEAVE THE HOUSE.

I washed my hair yesterday. It came out so good, I’m not going anywhere for as long as humanly possible.

Eventually, I’m going to have to leave the house. By that time my hair will be totally janked up. You can purchase dry shampoo, but there are plenty of household ingredients that work just as well. Flour, cornstarch, cocoa powder (if you have dark hair.) Rub that kludge in your scalp. Go on, don’t be bashful! Dump it on!

After a week or two of this your hair will look like a hedgehog that somehow managed to survive a nuclear holocaust, but by then you have enough crap in it to bake a chocolate cake. This will make you forget about how nastified your hair is, ummm, cake!

I also wear hats frequently. Baseball hats and beanies are my favorite, but in a pinch I’ll wear a cowboy hat or a sombrero, if I happen to wake up in Mexico.

Placenta is known to be really good for the hair. It’s expensive, and the stores try to sell you nasty animal placenta. Unless you want to grow a sheep out of your head, use HUMAN placenta. After you or a friend give birth, grab hold of that swag and massage into your scalp.

If you’re really having a supremely shitty hair day, wear a low-cut blouse.



The “smokey eye” is a coveted sultry eye makeup look. The best way to attain this look is to pass out without washing your eye makeup off.

If you wake up with disgusting clumps of black sludge on your lashes, smear that shit out for extra sexy. If I had a dollar for every day I wore last night’s eye makeup, I’d be wearing expensive left over makeup the next morning.

The same goes for your entire face. If I’m going to put in the effort to do my makeup, you better believe it’s going to last for at least two days. Washing your face every night just means you have to start all over again in the morning. Ain’t nobody got time for that!

You can never put on enough concealer. My under eyes have that “meth addict with eyeball anemia” look.

Kylie Jenner started a trend where girls try to copy her ‘celebrity pout’ without surgery or fillers. The process involves sucking into a cup or glass.

Huh! I’ve been doing this for YEARS. I use a vacuum cleaner hose, which bursts blood vessels quite nicely. It causes paralysis, but nothing permanent. As an alternative, you can always go for the Blow Job pout.

If that doesn’t leave you with puffy, plumped up lips, then you have done the Writer’s Job – which has no payoff.



Don’t knock if you haven’t tried it! This is a real game changer.

Clorox is a tad too harsh for us gals with sensitive butt holes, so you can smear whitening toothpaste up your ass. I’ve bleached my ham flower until it glows in the dark.

It serves a dual purpose, since we lose power frequently during rainstorms. I can find my way around the in the dark by walking backwards and bent over.



Exfoliation is super important. I get the really cheap washclothes at Walmart, the ones like sandpaper, and rub them over my face until it bleeds lightly. Alternatively, you can lie down and have a cat lick your face.

For a natural “rosy glow,” masturbate. It’s important to keep a purse size vibrator on you so you can get off on the fly.

The two absolute BEST things you can do for perfect skin? Dim lighting, and Photoshop.



Who has time to shower every day? That’s excessive, isn’t it?

Once you get to the point where your underarms smell like Sasquatch’s nuts, use Wet Wipes. I use them for just about everything – to bathe, clean up after sex, remove chocolate stains from my shirt, clean up cat vomit – WET WIPES ARE LIFE ITSELF.

Hand sanitizer also works well for the pits. Roll on deodorant afterwards. Don’t be shy about doing this at work. The trick is to maintain FULL EYE CONTACT with a co-worker while reaching under your shirt.

As an alternative to using deodorant on the fly, you can use those perfume tester cards they give you in department stores. At least once a week, I go to the bathroom at work and rub one of these on my pits. This is best accompanied by a little soft crying over what your life has come to.



Once you find a look that you love, stick with it – for decades! I’ve been wearing the same clothes since the 90’s. Furthermore, if you dislike people, you will avoid making any friends if you attend a PTO meeting looking like a Goth hobo.

A quick get ready morning tip: Wear the same clothes you slept in. Leggings and a tee shirt can be worn for several day/night cycles.

2nd day crotch stank is fixed by a spray of body spray or Febreze and a hair dryer. Spray first, then hang the pants around your knees and give them a good blast with the blow dryer. DO NOT attempt this without lowering your pants, or you will end up in the ER with a roasted vulva.



This is not quite a beauty hack, but it’s such a good tip, I had to include it. No one wants to fart in public, right? It’s not ladylike to smell like a sumo wrestler took a dump on a burning tire.

So when you feel one coming on, do a little pelvic tilt. You will now trap that fart in your vagina, where your labia will keep it nestled indefinitely.


What are your favorite beauty hacks?
You know I’m not kidding about wearing the clothes I slept in, right?
Talk to me. I’m listening. 


Join me on Facebook, Instagram, and Twitter  so I can have friends without leaving the house. 



The Cute Guy’s ex girlfriend is making my life miserable. Why can’t we all just have sex and be one big happy polyamorous family?

I’m willing to overlook the fact that she looks like a middle-aged Snooki. She’ll be fine once I get her out of that desperate MILF outfit and hose her down.


Over the summer, CG wanted to spend time with me more regularly than I was comfortable with. At the same time, his ex girlfriend found out through the grapevine that we were seeing each other.

Old Snooki contacted him, flipping out that he had moved on. He was craving more company. In a dysfunctional cloud of jealousy and unresolved feelings,they began seeing one another again.

I really didn’t care. He’s a grown-ass man. He can do what he wants, as long as I don’t catch Herpes Simplex 2 from him. Then we would have a come-to-jesus moment which involved him strapped to a chair with hot sauce on his privates while Wonderwall played on bagpipes.


The problem is, Old Snooki does NOT want him seeing me. She’s making his life miserable over it.

He has feelings for her. He tells me “it’s complicated.”


I did stop seeing him at one point, to avoid the drama. But we ended up hanging out again because he has a huge penis we have fantastic chemistry.

He’s kind of perfect. He adds pizzazz to the neighborhood when he roars up to my driveway on his motorcycle. He’s super funny. He’s one of the few people who doesn’t exhaust me, even though our dates stretch into dawn. It’s probably because he’s your basic good dumb fuck  not into a lot of in-depth conversation.


But he COMPLAINS to ME about how crazy she is.

I’ve been called that by men, so I don’t usually take it too seriously. There’s “leaves nasty messages” crazy, and then there’s “slashes your tires and you end up in jail” crazy.

“Crazy” is something a man labels you after they’ve done shit so heinous that you find yourself at your wit’s end and driven to things like trying to embarrass them in the comment section of their blog, thus lending credibility to their claim.
oopsie. That’s another blog post.

All women are a little crazy. And crazy has its upside. Would I be proposing threesomes if I was normal?


Hot chicks are often crazy. If you meet a smoking hot, totally chill woman, she’s a transvestite.

But on the Crazy Matrix, Old Snooki is in the Danger Zone. That’s above the Red Line Sector which contains strippers, redheads, or anyone named Tiffany.

She keeps her hand on his leg to monitor whenever his phone goes off. When he’s with me, he’s nervous that he’ll go home to find her in his driveway. Waiting to smell him.


I proposed to CG that we have a threesome. She’s not my type but I’ll take one for the team.

She adamantly refuses.

I understand she’s emotionally attached, but does that have to mean exclusivity? I was in love with my husband, and we still occasionally opened Door Number Three. We even had a steady girlfriend for a while; a young woman we referred to as “Bus Girl” because she used to take the bus to where we live.

Bus Girl was an ex-gymnast, capable of Cirque du Soleil worthy feats of sexual prowess. She was 15 years younger than me, and fucked like a porno Energizer Bunny.


Things would be so EASY if Old Snooki just accepted me. The Cute Guy is too stressed over this, and it’s a buzz kill. I can’t continue to see him.


The only problem is, now I have visions of a threesome with him in my head.

As an alternative, I spoke to my bestie about him. Not my college or NY bestie. Another bestie. She’s a hot brunette with a terrific giggle and an ass like J Lo. We can call her “Troublemaker” because she is.

Troublemaker doesn’t live near me, but she’s planning to visit, now that I showed her CG’s picture.

Get your minds out of the gutter! I showed her his enormous penis.


Women. Men are not biologically programmed for monogamy. Stone Age men, unshackled by stifling societal mores, grabbed multiple cave ladies by the hair and hauled them back to the cave for hot Troglodyte sex.

It takes enormous effort for a man to be faithful. Their penises have a mind of their own. Boasting this protuberance is like owning an extra fridge just to stock beer in. If it’s there, you’re always waiting for a party to break out.

Letting them indulge in a little extracurricular activity sanctioned by you is a great way to let them know you appreciate their efforts.

And If you and your man have completely incompatible sex drives, with his being really high and yours much lower, why not invite another woman in the bedroom and let her play jiffy stiffy? It’s one less thing you have to do around the house, right?

There are so many reasons to indulge in threesomes, not the least of which is (as in the case of Bus Girl) designating the third-party to be the one to fetch drinks and snacks when you don’t feel like getting out of bed.

I could have used another woman for backup during my third trimester, when I was 11 months pregnant and still blowing my husband in restaurant bathrooms. In between Braxton Hicks contractions.


The threesome arrangement is not just for your man. Being with another woman is one of life’s great pleasures, ranking up there with shoe shopping and perfectly hot wiring a car.

If you’re daunted by the idea of eating a fur burger, you can keep everything above the waist. You think I’m gonna lick Old Snooki’s snatch? Not on your life. There’s no telling what I’ll find up there. If I put my ear to it like a seashell, her pussy will echo with the cries of a thousand desperate men.


Some men are completely disinterested in sex outside of their relationship. This is a unicorn. If you find a unicorn, capture it safely. Modern science would like to study and possibly replicate it.


If you do consider adding a woman to your relationship, there’s actually an app to help you find her.

Goddamn, I love technology.

Would you ever have a threesome? What if she had cool clothes you could borrow?
Have you had one? Fess up! 
Talk to me. I’m listening. 

Join me on Facebook, Instagram, and Twitter so I can have friends without leaving the house.

Ask Me Anything!

January 7, 2016 — 67 Comments
baby jump

Travel Bucket List – Baby Jumping in Spain


Welcome to the First Edition of ASK ME ANYTHING, my new series in which I answer my reader’s questions that no one actually asked me!

So, without further ado  – Ask Me Anything!



1. Did you grow up with brothers and sisters, like a normal human being?

I was the only girl in a family with five brothers, all older than me. During the 1970’s, there was so much sperm flung around our apartment it was like living in the Monkey House at the Bronx Zoo.


2. What special writing awards have you won?

Sadly I didn’t qualify for the “I Gave a BlowJob Outside The Holland Tunnel” blog award. However, I WAS runner-up in the “Do You Think An Elephant Can Use a Fluffy Cat as a Tampon” essay contest.


3. What is something on your travel Bucket List?

I want to visit the Spanish village of Castrillo de Murcia and participate in “El Colacho,” the baby jumping festival. Parents place their babies in neat rows of pillows on a public street. Then, men dressed in bright red and yellow jumpsuits and grotesque devil masks run down the street, jumping over the rows of babies like Olympic hurdlers.

I’ve been lining up infants and practicing for YEARS.


4. Did you really have a chicken as a childhood pet?

Yes, in high school. I named him Dr. Feddy. He accidentally hatched in the biology lab, and was quite ill with irritable bowel syndrome as a baby chick. I nursed him back to health, even cleaning poo off his little chicken anus.

As he grew, I used to let him run around in the bathtub for exercise. When he started all that ‘cock-a-doodle-dooing‘ at dawn, my mom brought him to a farm so he could run free with the other chickens.


I just realized my mom was a lying hooker.


5. How do discipline with your child?

I aggravate the shit out of him with outdated rap expressions.

“Boo, you better break yourself, cause that is some chickenhead move! Finish your homework so we can go to Gamestop and get flossy, dude! No diggity!”

Translation: Honey, please stop trying to set the house on fire. It’s ill-advised. Finish your homework so we can go to Gamestop and buy you the video games that incite you to commit arson to begin with. I promise.

Flossy –   The lesser known and unloved cousin of “jiggy.” Used to express one’s burning desire to be Flashy and Showy, while simultaneously reminding white folks about the importance of routine dental care.


6. Is it true you don’t like theme parks? Why?

I have terrible motion sickness. Growing up, we kept a pail in our station wagon for me to hurl in when I got car sick. To this day, I can’t go on rides. Once, when I was a kid, some family took me on “Rent A Poor Kid Day” to Six Flags something or other, and I threw up 17 times.


7. Do you have a pet peeve?

I LOSE IT when I get stuck in voice prompt purgatory. It is actually the Tenth Circle of Dante’s Hell.

“Please listen carefully to our menu options as they have changed” is a WHORE. They’re all changing their menu options daily and I can’t even remember why I started this sentence. Who is responsible for this? I will personally give that person a project girl beat-down.

When trapped in the Tenth Circle I start drooling and chant REPRESENTATIVE, REPRESENTATIVE, REPRESENTATIVE.


8. What is the first thing you do as soon as you wake up in the morning?

Make espresso. Twice. I have a 12-year-old with ADHD. He vaults out of bed like someone shoved a spring-loaded tampon up his ass. He talks until my ears bleed.

The best way to protect myself from this verbal onslaught is with copious alcohol consumption, but then I have trouble navigating the drop-off loop at his school. And we walk, so you can imagine my confusion.


9. Do you have a New Years resolution for 2016?

I want to stop swearing in front of my kid, which most often occurs when I’m driving. The insertion of the ignition key directly stimulates the foul mouth limbic center of my brain. Last week I called a pedestrian an Eskimo whore, which Little Dude questioned for 10 minutes. I also forget that he’s a kid sometimes, and answer him like an adult. Last summer, I was looking at booty shorts at Target, and he said, “You can’t wear those!” To which I replied, “Oh yeah? Watch me, MOTHERFUCKER!”


10. Is there something on your sexual bucket list?

Yes. I would like to douse myself in over-the-counter numbing cream containing 4% lidocaine, then sit on my partner backwards but not feel anything or in fact, even know I’m there. It’s called Reverse Stranger.


11. What was the worst nightmare you ever had?

I have a recurring nightmare in the form of a science fiction film. In the post-apocalyptic world, Year One Million and a Half, seagulls are currency and giraffes are a predatory species which rule the world. Giraffes are my favorite animal, but in my nightmare, they’ve turned vicious.They don’t bite, but they swing their heads which comes in like a wrecking ball. Giraffes weigh 3000 pounds and sleep only 20 minutes a day. Imagine one of those cranky fuckers chasing you at high speed.

Human kind, enslaved by giraffes. Giraffic Park.


Stay tuned for my next installment of Ask Me Anything! If you have any real questions, leave them in the comments and I might even answer them.

So ask me anything. I’m listening.


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Fluffing In Portland

January 1, 2016 — 87 Comments



It should come as no surprise to anyone that freaky-deaky Portland is the first place that I felt like I fit in since I left New York.

While in Portland,  I was chatting with Beth, and I mentioned that I wasn’t able to get together with Ned, who lives in Oregon, because of the flooding.
She replied, “I didn’t realize it was still fluffing!”



Girl, it’s ALWAYS fluffing in Portland.

I traditionally spend Christmas with my college bestie and her family. Her oldest daughter lives in Portland, and this year, ten of us traveled there for the holidays.

We stayed at an Airbnb. For the uninitiated, an Airbnb is when you pay to stay in someone’s house, and pray they’re not a meth head with a vermin problem.

There was one other person there, a thirty-something dude who blazed up and coded with Java script all day. Every morning, while we ate breakfast, we watched Java Man do his 10 am bong hits on the terrace.

Little Dude got to see some of Portland’s coolest stuff, like the OMSI, (Oregon Museum of Science and Industry), where we toured an actual submarine. That went splendidly, especially the part where I clawed the tour guide for air and screamed “WE’RE ALL GOING TO DIE DOWN HERE!!!”

Afterwards, I had to soothe myself with a trip to the famous Voodoo Doughnuts, and purchase a Cock-N-Balls doughnut.

Little Dude also had quite the unofficial sightseeing experience. He spent an entire week with my wacky wonderful friends, who were inebriated most of the time. The very first night, F-bombs and dick jokes were flying. Christmas night, ten of us played Cards Against Humanity, where my 12-year-old was treated to such phrases as “coughed into a vagina.”

I’m blaming it all on Portland.



Ahhh, the Elixir of the Gods. Portlanders take their coffee seriously. They go nuts for obscure beans, like Formosan Rock Monkey coffee. They brew it in state of the art machinery that looks like it belongs in a steampunk sex dungeon.

Nobody goes to Starbucks for evil corporate caffeine. Portland residents frequent independent coffee shops staffed by skinny white dudes with full sleeve tattoos and plaid western shirts who listen to Neutral Milk Hotel.



Portlanders are not thrilled by the influx of misfits from all over the country. Portland is like the nerdy girl in those hackneyed teen movies who never gets asked out, because she wears glasses and has her hair in a bun. Then, she lets down her bun (only not if she’s a guy, manbuns are cool) and takes off her glasses (except glasses are sexy in Portland…)

Okay, that was a bad example.

Portland is the skinny girl who sprouted breasts over summer vacation and becomes suddenly popular. Naturally, they’re a little suspicious. Twenty years ago, no one gave a half a fuck about Portland and now the entire country has a boner for Oregon.

Portlanders are generally super friendly, but I did wander into a few places where I felt distinctly unwelcome. One coffeehouse, housed in a raw industrial warehouse, had a discernibly restrictive vibe.

You know that vibe? Where you feel as if you’ve  wandered into a rural cult compound and everyone celebrates the arrival of an outsider by tying you to a banquet table, putting on their ceremonial animal masks, and drinking your blood from a chalice? THAT.



You’re surrounded by Hipster Apple fanboys with 2% body fat, who didn’t get the memo that mutton chops are only sexy on Confederate generals. Did you know that plaid is scary? Yes, I know you think of it as innocuous little pattern of perpendicular strips and bands, but when worn in a cluster? It’s positively frightening.

No one has clear-cut occupations in Portland. Some do something vague and techy that leaves them a whole lot of time to hang out in jock straps while hot boxing weed. Others set up their laptops at the coffee shop down the street, where they divide their time between applying for odd jobs on Craigslist and writing (free) articles for Thought Catalog.

Everyone is an artist/intellectual. They write poetry or unicycle with flamethrower bagpipes or play the didgeridoo. There’s even an artsy intellectual sex toy store – She Bop. They offer sex education classes. If you’re in Portland, you can go there to learn about anal sex, cunnilingus, or how to give a more fabulous blow job.
You’re welcome.



The heart of Portland beats to an Artisanal beat. There are more yarn stores here per capita than any other city in the US, in case you want to take up knitting – a slow, frustrating, repetitive hobby that will enrage you.

There’s a reason Portland is so crafty. Aside from Hipsters, the city is teeming with regular ol’ hippies. They wake at the crack of noon, and have a full day of smoking pot, protesting progress and reason, playing hackey sack and seeing how long they can go without bathing before they become infested with ticks.

However, hippies without trust funds must do some sort of work in order to buy weed and overpriced organic hippie food. Hence, the craft markets. The hippies sell their hippie crap to tourists like me, because apparently I can’t visit the city and leave without a Dorodango mud ball and jewelry made of plastic baby heads.



Everyone walks everywhere, even though it ALWAYS RAINS.

No one in my suburban neighborhood walks. The only exercise I get is reverse cowgirl  reaching for things in the back seat of my car.

In New York City people walk, but there’s no rhyme or reason to the flow of sidewalk traffic. Groups of people walk five-abreast. They treat walking down the street like a struggle for pack dominance

Portland pedestrians are very civil. It’s the hipster dads pushing doublewide monster strollers you have to watch out for. There has to be a way to stack kids vertically. How about putting your favorite kid on top?

There are more people on bikes than on cars. I personally am not a cyclist. But I understand it’s part of their fanatic need to help the environment. Portlandians also ride out of a sense of community. Nekkid community. Portland hosts the annual “World Naked Bike Ride.” OW. Bicycle seats hurt my delicate smush mitten – and that’s clothed.

HOW do people get on those double-decker bikes, which are essentially two bikes welded together, one on top of the other? They usually ride with steampunk glasses and top hats, in case they don’t stand out enough.

Yep, Portland feels like home.

I plan to return this summer.
I’m a little concerned about the lack of central air conditioning in 90 degree weather. Who the DICKWOLF designed apartments without air conditioning?!! Apparently, in summer a Portland home become an oven in Satan’s tool shed.

On a positive note, I’ll be able to fill a growler with my own sweat and sell it at a crafts fair.


Have you ever lived in or visited Portland? What is up with all the weirdos? Do you live in a different weird city? 
Talk to me. I’m listening. 

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