There’s an old Oregon joke that was going around when I arrived here from Pennsylvania (“Penn’s Woods”) in the early 90’s:
Three men are sitting around a campfire outside of Bend, Oregon. The Texan takes a swig from a bottle of whiskey, throws the bottle in the air and shoots it to pieces with his 6-shooter.
“Why did you do that?” the others ask. “Hell, I’m from Texas and we’ve got lots of Whiskey!”
After watching that, the Californian takes a swig out of a bottle of white wine, throws it in the air and blasts it apart with the Glock he got at Wal*Mart. “Hell, I’m from California and we’ve got lots of white wine!”
The man from Oregon takes a swig from a Black Butte Porter, throws it in the air, catches it and shoots the Californian. “What the hell?” asks the Texan.
“I’m from Oregon and we’ve got lots of Californians and this bottle is worth 5 cents.”
What happens when you’re stranded on Mars and end up more popular than the potato chip aisle at Wal*Mart?
And here you go:
Reid Fleming crossed my path, I would guess in early 90’s Pittsburgh. Why is his nose so square? Who knows? I would suggest not asking him, a guy who crushes his alarm clock in his bare hands every morning.
Why am I writing about this? Well, like Banana Man, Reid Fleming makes no sense. He’s going to deliver your milk whether you like it or not.
Arnold’s in trouble again. Only two smokes left in the pack.
And he’s been coughing blood.
“Give it to me straight, doc. What’s happening?” he rasps.
Dr. Benway is perusing x-rays by holding them up to the window behind his desk. He swivels his chair around, sets the x-rays on the desk and clamps the pig with his gaze. “I’ve got good news and bad news. Which do you want first?”
“Gimmie the good news.”
“The good news is this won’t cost you a dime.” He stops and smiles, leaning back in his chair. “That is, if you agree to a few conditions…”
“Conditions! Say, like what?”
Dr. Benway chuckles. “First the bad news. You have lung cancer. Bad. See this?” He’s pointing to what is clearly a dark mass in the pig’s lungs in an x-ray. “Bad.” The pig is squinting at it. “What you need my friend, is a lung transplant.”
Arnold coughs out his cig with a bolt of surprise and fear, then scrambles and lights a fresh one from the pack. “Wa-what?”
“How much do you like breathing? And being alive?”
“Let’s say I’ve gotten used to it, and I have unfinished business to attend to.” With a rude noise he horks up a bloody mass of gunk, right on the floor. Arnold realizes he’s shaking. “Do I get to pick the donor? Don’t fucking need one of those feed-lot jobs. Fucking factory pork.”
“Ah, you see that’s the condition…”
“I just said no factory pork!”
“You didn’t let me finish. No factory pork. No pork products at all, actually.”
“What? Monkey lungs? Dog?”
“Not at all my friend. Human.”
M’right. It was 2000-something. You know what? It takes almost the exact amount of hours to drive to That Event In The Desert as it is to fly from Portland and transit to the Spanish desert to participate in European Burning Man.
That sounds crazy, but when you’re traveling by VW Thing it really does take two days. Burning Man is one of the ways we ruined Portland. San Francisco is both the birthplace of many wonderful and interesting things but also ruined. Portland delivered (delivers still?) the number two largest population of “burners”.
Who are these people and why are they running up housing prices? Here in NoPo this structure I reside in would have been maybe $50k to buy when I arrived in the 90’s. Yet in 2023 around the corner a house is listed for $700k.
Thank you morons in the financial industry for creating a bubble in pricing that will take 50+ years to correct.
Portland is ruined. Don’t move here.
The pig has it on repeat.
“It’s nice to be liked
But it’s better by far to get paid” –– Liz Phair
The pig wants to get paid. He’s down to two smokes again.
He’s at the border, staring at the mountains, smoldering under the desert heat.
His driver is El Gordo Hermoso, a sucker if there was ever one seen. However, a sucker who can be counted on to drive a pig to an important meeting to get his cut.
El Gordo stinks of re-fried beans. The pig reeks of tobacco products, though El Gordo can put up with that. They are staring out the windshield.
Where are those fuckers?
Arnold is a pig with a problem.
He’s smoking.
He’s down to two cancer sticks in the pack.
That’s a side problem.
“Get on the bed.” He says. She looks bored.
The lighting overhead flickers in an uncomfortable way. The motel coffee comes “free” with the room, if you consider that free.
“You’re a pig, you know.”
“Yeah, I know I’m a fucking pig. But I’ve got a problem.”
Pig and washed-up TV star Arnold Ziffel stares at the fat man in confused wonder with a big mean streak right down the middle. “How does a junkie like you stay so fucking fat?”
El Gordo Hermoso stuffs another Slim Jim beneath his voluminous and ragged mustachio. “It ain’t easy, puerco.” He leans the creaking chair back against the tobacco stained 70’s wallpaper, some kind of symphony of burnt umber and orange. It’s the kind of “affordably-priced” motel where your shoes stick to the carpet. The smell of strong bleach tells you more than you want to know.
“Watch your mouth fat stuff.” Arnold’s voice sounds like he’s been gargling with gravel and crusty old charcoal. “Us wild boars are known to eat humans when you give us shit, cabrón.” Arnold worries the smoldering cig about in his maw and glances at the clock. “Save it for Weight Watchers and get that junk cut. We’ve got a deadline. People to meet. Got it?”
“Yeah? You inna hurry? Why don’t you cut it?”
What a snark. Arnold spits. “No opposable thumbs, jackass. You want the money or what?”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah….” Gordo turns back to the baby powder. The things a pig has to do for money.
“Hey pig, maybe just a little snort of this first…”
“Golden rule, fathead. ‘Don’t get high on your own supply.'” snorts Arnold. Gordo looks sad, but then gets down to work. Arnold softens a touch. “After. Then you can nod out.”
Sigh. “Ok. You’re the boss, pig.”
Arnold is staring at the glocks on the coffee table; cleaned, loaded and ready and thinks to himself: “After, if you survive.“
Postscript
Unfamiliar with former TV Star Arnold Ziffel? About our pig.
Then there’s the time Arnold needed smokes…
On Mars, in the Tiki Bar, turns out there’s ghosts.
Catch up with Chapter 19 – Ghosts in the Tiki Bar.
Or start somewhere else: The Story So Far
Good news, Mars fans! I’ve been busy.
Click here to read the latest from The Last Tiki Bar on Mars: Chapter 19 – Ghosts In The Tiki Bar
And of course, click here to enjoy The Banana Man Holiday Special!
…and remember: Space travel is not possible without chorizo!
— Your bartender