We hit the underbelly of the Mississippi neighborhood like a gaggle of frozen rubber chickens (whatever the hell that is). The crack dealers’ union almost fell apart, as their representatives lobbied the C.I.A. for more funding and better training since none of the pimps and thugs were schooled in countering vigilante clown insurgents.(Ask the folks at Mississippi pizza, we used to rumble with thugs on their front porch) Many a would be thief stopped the police in those North Portland streets, begging to be taken to jail just to get away from a drunken, naked clown (I get sexy when I drink).

Yes, the plan worked. People were coming out of their houses; enjoying the community, and more people, told people who told people who told people, and they all began loading their bikes on their cars (hahahahahaha) and moving into the neighborhood. Pretty soon, it was so safe that we could no longer afford to live in our clown house. Rents skyrocketed with the influx of Young Urban Professionals. A coffee shop sprung up, and then a video store with no videos, just little records that don’t play on the record player.

Friends of ours who had lived and worked there 40 years got swindled out of their building, and evicted. Our slumlord noticed the coffee shop, and the presence of people who wear ties, and decided not only to raise the rent but also to evict us.

Let me tell you freaks, I haven’t seen that much drama and grief since we clowns had to battle N.V.S. (that’s a gang of disgruntled, clown-hating baseball players. Their name sounds like the word “Envious” but it really stands for “Not Very Sportsmanlike”), on the streets of Eugene.

Our new house on Alberta street is bigger, better and I hear it’s more beautiful (I‘ve never been there), and I don’t think we will have to worry about getting classed out for at least six months. Fancy buildings are going up all over, and the sidewalks are cluttered with that chain-link fencing that surrounds construction of condos and high rent shopping. It’s a funny irony that I hear all the new apartments are being built with large balconies to enjoy the very street life they are driving away. The moral of the story? If you like where you live, keep it ugly. Encourage litter and gang violence. I’m just too beautiful too be in a gangfight, so when I get out of jail, I’m going home looking like crap. I told Dingo to get me an old jockstrap to wear, and I’m only eating bacon here in the joint (weird that almost none of my kennelmates dig bacon, they must be Catholic), so by the time I get out I’m gonna have the most impressive set of ingrown-hairy man boobies in town. Oh by the way, in case your wondering why I’m in jail, the rumors about me aren’t true. I hear people are saying that I went back to the old hood and dispersed hundreds of little baggies containing crumbled macadamia nuts, to encourage the crack horde to return.

But the truth is, we were biking our stuff to the new location; I hadn’t even seen the joint yet. Dingo got exited about the new digs and yelled, “YEEEEE-EEE-HAW!” A nearby agent of the office of Homeland Insecurity misheard him, and thought it was me, yelling, Jiiiiiiiiiiiiiiihad! I still haven’t been charged, or seen a lawyer, but that’s ok. I’m lucky, some people will never even get to SEE Cuba, and they give me free electricity, straight from the tap. I did notice that the Mexicans here wear rimless sombreros and talk some messed up Spanish. Gotta go, I hear a jar-head coming.

“Love ya when I’m drunk,”

Pepto

[Editor's Note: N4N is publishing a series in conjunction with the Portland Story Project to publish vignettes from Portlanders]