At least I think that it’s Sunday morning. This entire trip has morphed the continuously running clock/calendar that is supposed to be on track in my head into a giant blob. Add Daylight Savings Time into the equation, and I don’t even know where I am. Somewhere my body is floating through the space/time continuum.
If you live on the west coast, I think one of the requirements to do so is that you must get a nose ring. That of course is attached to your Starbucks. Figuratively, not literally. I haven’t figured this hip jewelry out yet. Teens have them, moms have them, dads have them, grandmas have them, some lady was walking around with her pet pug who had a giant nose ring flaring from its nostrils. These things are everywhere. Taking over the National College Fair world that I’ve been trapped in for the past, I think week or so?
A plump Peter with a scratched up suitcase and hideous tie flaring 80’s fashion walks by and stares me up and down. In his head, plump Peter is disgusted that I am not holding a Starbucks. In his head, plump Peter thinks that I don’t fit in with this high-class group of salesmen because I am from Utah. In his head, plump Peter laughingly mocks me for not wearing my faux-emerald glittering stump nose ring on the right side of my face. In his head, plump Peter is the Genghis Khan of academia, traveling the country eating up students’ requests left and right.
In my head, plump Peter is a muffin top munchkin who eats his own boogers.
Next to me a ginger recruiter from a Michigan school flaunting her cleavage is recounting how she hit on a cop last night to get out of a 30+ mph speeding ticket. The Shallow Hal pretentious tool is interrupting her 30+ mph monologue to remind her about the triceps extensions that he was pumping out this morning at 24-hour fitness. Ron Burgundy would be proud of this conceited bastard.
The bell has rung, the nose rings have started to flutter in, time to put on my game face and be the zoo marquee salesman that attracts kids to a place called Utah. A lumberjack flaunting a beard that would intimidate Grizzly Adams walks by and stares me down. Portland is much more different than Seattle.
The fair has ended, I’m off for a walk down the streets of Portland, off to get some kind of magic donut that my boss praises. I must admit, Portland is a much more dirty city than I thought it would be. Every ten steps I can smell a hint of marijuana in the air. Not that I know what marijuana smells like anyway. After about a mile of my walk of weed, I come across the infamous joint that is surrounded by homeless musicians and cardboard boxes offering prostiutional favors (I kid you not). A place called Voo Doo Donuts.
This hometown bakery has some of the most sexually promiscuous named donuts I have ever heard of before. Donuts that I, Swamp Thing the blogger with no class whatsoever refuses to reveal to my readers in my blog, and these X-rated baker’s treats are just a play on words to make more money from promiscuous customers. Our world is one big brothel, I tell you what.
Stepping up to the counter, I order what appears to be a giant joke. I step aside from the dirty donut names, and ask for what is called the Maple Bacon Bar (See picture above). The only reason I get this is because my boss praised this like it was the greatest thing ever created, almost like a mix between Fergie and TiVo. And I will admit, the man was right, I was in shock and awe from the very first bite to the point where I was licking the grease and frosting off of my fingers. It was divine. That was such a succulent sweetness, I would rank it right up there with Better Than Sex cake.
But then again, I’m a 26-year old virgin, how would I know if this donut is better than intercourse?
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