I have two things to say: First, thank you for reading the Portland Mercury newspaper gazette periodical. It is largely because of your unceasing interest and devotion that the Mercury is celebrating its 16th birthday this week. I am both humbled and encouraged by your outpouring of love and loyalty, and hope we can continue to produce the newspaper you deserve for many more years to come. And secondly: DO YOU KNOW WHO THE FUCK I AM?
Sixteen years. Sixteen interminable years I've been editing this newspaper, and by now? I'd sincerely LOVE IT if I could begin to cash in on just a little bit of the prestige I've worked so motherfucking hard to attain. And yet? When I walk among the citizenry I've toiled so diligently to uplift, YOU PEOPLE act like I'm some average "Joe Hoi Polloi," treating me with the same blatant disregard as a shoe department hireling at Ross Dress for Less. (No disrespect to Ross Dress for Less—the homeless have to shop somewhere.)
EXAMPLE: Last week, during one of my rare excursions on the east side of the river, I decided to slum it by driving myself rather than taking an uberSELECT. Heading eastward, I found myself trying to cross Grand Avenue during rush hour. Excuse me, but WHAT IS HAPPENING OVER THERE. It looked like Beijing, except with Subarus! After waiting a solid two minutes for the traffic to part and allow me through, I began inching my Bentley Continental into the scrum—and what did I receive for my trouble? Horns blaring, angry drivers making wild Italian hand gestures, and not a single person with the slightest fucking idea of WHO THE FUCK I AM.