Dearest Ophelia,
I write to you from the gangrenous environs of so-called “war-ravaged” Portland. I thought I had borne witness to everything in my younger days—Bosnia, Rwanda, and Eric Trump’s gum line. But this, my dear, eclipses them all.
The Filth and the Hunger
No, this is not the Bowling Green Massacre. Nor is it the tragedy of an escalator ceasing to carry a margarine-slicked frame up its measly 18 steps. Yet the indignities mount.
Also Read
Consider the shortages, Ophelia. At Elephant’s Delicatessen, gluten-free curry is extinct, its absence unpredicted by even the most astute tarot reader. Thus I must subsist on a pitiful diet of artisanal nut cheeses, plant-based collagen, and vegan honey. Oh, cruel fate! What grievous sin have we committed to deserve such torment?
Of Jack and His Disappearances
Jack has vanished again, no doubt consorting with the phantom regiment known as Antifa. Perhaps he is spray-painting cryptic messages across the city, armed with environmentally friendly, easy-removal paints. One day, perhaps, we shall see him again—not just his slogans, but the lad himself.
Creatures of the Night
We have taken to hiding, yet even in shadows we encounter beasts surely dispatched by Beelzebub. They promise comfort, whisper of deliverance, yet I am stripped bare, my night-vision goggles—once dedicated to bird-watching—stolen by a particularly spirited English Springer Spaniel.
And the heavens mock us. Three days without rain in Portland, a sure sign Judgment approaches. Through my window I behold unspeakable acts, fecal-sprinkled and unpunished. It seems as though every foul remnant of man and nature has gathered here, conspiring in one titanic festival of despair.
The Foraging
In desperation, I ventured to forage for supplies. Instead, I stumbled upon creatures so vestigial and vile they seemed more nightmare than flesh. They moved together, plotting endlessly, as though bonded since youth by a hunger for freedom’s undoing.
Who are these wanton beasts, Ophelia? Do they not realize that among us live innocents, mere children yearning to exist in peace? May these young souls escape the grip of such savagery. Some say salvation lies in bonds of $50,000, slipped into a paper bag, handed over without inquiry. Perhaps this, too, is divine ordinance.
Of Presidents and Prophecies
Before I close, my darling, let me speak of the man some call our President. Critics liken him to a hog at the county fair, rooting through primordial muck, an airborne contagion good only for attracting horseflies and errant syphilis. They call him a mushroom-d****d relic, a mephistophelean architect of a mortgaged, malfunctioning world.
But I, of course, believe none of this. How could one dismiss the genius of a man who once proclaimed, “Person, Woman, Man, Camera, TV”? Surely such a phrase alone qualifies him as savior of our beleaguered city.
He will save Portland from itself—from its natural beauty, its urban decor, its vistas from Mt. Tabor, its South Park blocks with fountains and gardens. He shall liberate its educated citizens from the temptation to twirl their belly-button lint merely for amusement.
Toward the Shithole Future
Yes, Ophelia, this orange colossus shall deliver us into the paradise long promised: a land with Florida’s vaccinations, Texas’ weather preparation, and South Dakota’s gross national product.
So stay strong, my dear. As the sun sinks behind the Cascades, know that I remain, ever yours, awaiting either salvation or satire’s final curtain.
Fondly, in this cursed city,
Jebediah
