Uncle Chad’s Guide to PORTLANDIA

Where to start?

I guess my move to Portland, in earnest, started in the late-spring of 2000. Prior to that, Portland was just a place I’d travel to in order to attend concerts by Jane’s Addiction, Joe Strummer, and things of that ilk. Not that this is a bad thing, but in truth, liking bands who trumpeted their non-hatred of minorities was considered a sort of affront–imagined or otherwise–to the backwards tendencies of the local populace.

I was still working on the family wheat farm, which was a good 45 minutes from Walla Walla, Washington (sadly, the largest municipality I lived in the vicinity of). On the way to my bank in Walla Walla, with the intention of cashing my paycheck, my vehicle overheated and died on the way there, outside the small town of Waitsburg. I had no choice but to try and cash my check at the local Bank of the West.

Sporting long hair and a Pink Floyd t-shirt, I walked into the Bank of the West and attempted to cash my check. Despite having the proper ID, I was denied. I explained that I was in a desperate need of cash. The cagey hausfrau working the counter explained that she could not cash this check unless it was a payroll check. I explained that it was, in fact, a payroll check, that I had cashed checks there before, and that the sign right in front of my face stipulated that she could cash the check if I paid 2% of the sum as a charge.

She just shook her head and threatened to get her boss, and if that wasn’t enough, she would go get a local deputy to drive me out of her bank. Thinking quickly, I left, and used my dad’s business’s good rep to allow me to charge a couple jugs of antifreeze to his account at the local Farmer’s Co-Op. I filled my radiator, continued on to Walla Walla, that hive of tolerance, and cashed the fucking check.

A few hours later, I came home and explained the situation to my father, whose answer to all this was, “Well, look at you.” This from the guy who gave me the goddamn Pink Floyd shirt for Christmas in the first place.

Me wearing the goddamn shirt and not offending anyone:

I called my cousin in Portland and explained all this to her. Within two months, I was in Portland, starting my life over with her assistance. Within months, I had a shit job, found a place within a local performance-art troupe, and was living the typical Portland dream, to the detriment of my stability, sanity, and mental and physical health.

So, basically, Massive Butthurt arbitrarily motivated my move to Portland. It was as if my turgid Massive Butthurt erection found its home in a Massive Butthurt vagina, and all my doings after that were my Massive Butthurt ejaculations into its willing cervix.

From my interactions with others here in this town–very few of whom were actually born here–I am not alone. This town has, for many people, become a soft landing pad for the Massive Butthurt who could not survive elsewhere.

And this is where IFC’s new series Portlandia comes in.

In the case of the many homosexuals and transgenders, I totally understand. It’s no fun to be gay in a small town–or many big towns out there, really. Apparently, regardless of your personal orientation, “being disruptive, retarded, or otherwise freakishly annoying” also lumps you into being an endangered minority whose safety is guaranteed in this city, should you choose to live here.

To wit:

Thanks to One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest, now it’s okay to wipe your turds on the guy next to you on the bus, you get “community supervision.” Should you restrain your girlfriend from stabbing you, you get jail time for bruising her arm.

Fred Armisen–yet another obnoxious google-eyed cunt in the vein of Chris Kattan whom people mistakenly peg as awesome despite his Nazi-like complicity in the atrocity that is current-day SNL (a stand-up comedian friend guesting in Portlandia pegging him as “amazing” is all the indictment I needed–hell, she thinks I’m amazing so clearly BITCH DON’T KNOW SHIT AMIRITE) and Carrie Brownstein–who I will get to later–are the key players in this new show. It initially dissuaded me as far as giving this show either the time of day or the tip of my dick.

Why? Because of the afore mentioned Ms. Brownstein, whose ex-band, Sleater-Kinney (who relocated here from a far more disgustingly annoying and lame city, the RiotGrrl capital of the world, Olympia, WA) was the bane of my existence in this fair city. I once was in a bar and heard them playing on the jukebox, and walked over and kicked it. Not because I hated the music, per se, but because I thought it was playing at the wrong speed, it was so shrill. Unfortunately, it was a CD jukebox, so it did no good. Additionally, their fans are annoying…something, I realized after watching Portlandia, that Carrie might be very aware of herself, putting herself amongst (and not limited to) Robert Plant, Scott Weiland, and, regrettably, Kurt Cobain.

Once, a local band, The Punk Group, played a song called “Sleater-Kinney Sucks” at a show eight years ago, and my drunk friend Cindy started huge rant. “THEY’RE FUCKING CUNTS. MY BAND OPENED FOR THEM ONCE. THEY SUCK AND THEY’RE NOT NICE.” I laughed and cheered her on, mainly because she referred to me as her “boyfriend” earlier and wouldn’t have been opposed to fucking her at the time.

A mutual friend warned her, “Hey, Janet’s standing behind you.” He was referring to Janet Weiss, their drummer. I didn’t see Janet again until she showed up at my work for the Kentucky Derby last year. I’m not going to say we glared at each other…but there was a little bit too much eye contact than was normally warranted. Because of Cindy? Because we were both taking part in the shameful act (albeit by proxy) of animal cruelty? I don’t know. I live in Portland, I have no proper frame of reference, because we’re all fucked.

So naturally, I was wary of some show on IFC that has this broad from that annoyingly shrill band, and that Chris Kattan lookin’ dumbfuck who was in the Blue Man Group. But somehow, I found it within the diseased heart frantically beating under my man-tits to give it a chance.

This, along with everyone else who has seen the first episode, was the first thing I saw.

I was won immediately upon viewing this. My neighbor and ex-roommate showed me this on her laptop, and I was sitting with her on the couch, cackling like a cauldron-stirring witch, gleefully head-butting her with joy. I felt that, whoever these assholes were, they understood my pain. Especially that part about clowns going to clown school. That guy I was in the clown video with (scroll up, you dumb cunt) is actually in clown school right now. Granted, he’s in San Francisco now (re: the last 30 seconds of that clip–we tend to harbor animus towards the large cities to the immediate North and South of us who display similar tendencies as us), but it’s still true.

See? If you live here, you will open up your heart, if you’re any kind of human being, and laugh along with it. Portlandia is a better compendium of all the annoying (and truthful) stereotypes of Portland residents than you could ever hope for in a mass-media forum.

Does that mean that the rest of the world will understand? Including you, the typical Lethal Entertainment viewer who, by way of our message board, is tired of hearing about it all? I don’t give a recycled-tin-shit. Someone accomplished it, and, two episodes into its first (and, realistically, last) season, I’m happy about it. It’s one thing for Fred Armisen to play along with this shit, but to see Carrie Brownstein seemingly shitting on her fan base? Pure, pure glory, and god bless that woman, whether she denies it or not.

So here’s the part where I cough up clips and vouch for their authenticity, regardless of whether you give a fuck or not.

Put a Bird On It!!!

As the beginning of the sketch depicts, this is a store on Missisippi Ave., one of the many sections of North Portland who have fell victim to gentrification. (Is this intentional? I can’t tell, I live here and therefore, I’m fucked in the head.) Whether anyone up there will admit it or not, if a black guy–or Lillith forbid, a Mexican, who should be in the back washing dishes– walks into their place and doesn’t behave Portlandia white twat standards and maybe knocks something over…EWWW GROSS. Do I need to explain the metaphor?

As is customary from an SNL cast member, Armisen over-plays the “Hey, I live up here, I’m a poncey twat” bit, but I’m not opposed to that in anyway so good on him.

To Be Fair…

I’ve experienced this kind of behavior not only here, but in Walla Walla, AND New York City. Apparently, due to the “guest star” depiction, I’m supposed to give a fuck who the skinny college chick is. I don’t. But, overall, yeah, this is accurate too. This speaks poorly against…books.

I don’t expect any of you assholes to pay attention to any of this shit unless I cough up someone who’s been in a movie you dunces have watched over and over, so here you go, another depiction of (stereo)typical Portland behavior featuring that guy in those movies who you cunts jack off to all the time.

If You’re Not Outraged, You’re Not Paying Attention


Sadly, this is not inaccurate TPB (typical Portland behavior) either.

I’ve run out of gas. As the series progresses over the season, I will continue this series, in the meantime, go over to our comments section to discuss this. If you don’t feel comfortable registering for our message board, don’t worry…I don’t feel comfortable with you doing it either. Just shit on me on Facebook, where I’m sure this page’s URL will leak out and incite an incredibly meager amount of righteous, misguided indignation.

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