If this city ever gets another professional sports team it should be called The Portland Rain. That’d be way better than The Portland Roses, and it would probably beat out The Portland MicroBrews since there is already the Milwaukee Brewers.
It’s mid-August and it’s raining in Portland. This is supposed to be the hottest and driest month in Oregon (That’s based on experience. I’m no meteorologist, but it would be cool to befriend one, or date one of those cute weathergirls…I’ve always had a thing for Rhonda Shelby, and I know I’m not alone.). I’m supposed to look like KFC extra crispy chicken, but no, I don’t even look like original recipe–I look like a biscuit smothered in country gravy.
I’m always disappointed because when it rains I’m never in a situation like those couples in the movies that just make out and get soaked and twirl around and don’t even think about how sick they could get or how many towels they’re going to need to dry off. And then what are they gonna do when they need to take a shower? All their towels are gonna be damp. Maybe I don’t want to be them after all, because I can’t dry off with a dampened towel.
This stream of consciousness segment was brought to you by dry bath towels.
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