As the weather cools after an all-too-cool summer, people in Portland are getting ornery. Just how we like 'em at the I, Anonymous desk. Two more just came in the mail. Like the mail-mail. On paper. Thus, they are clearly important and official:

On hipsters through history:

Hey Hipsters—Please stop calling yourselves hipsters. We've already had a generation of hipsters in this country. They were around in the late '50s and early '60s (also called beatniks, a moniker laid upon them by the media). People such as Jack Kerouac, Allen Ginsberg, Lenny Bruce, Miles Davis, John Coltrane, and Lord Buckley. They created great music, art, comedy, and literature. You people have none of that. Your music sucks, your literature sucks, and your comedy sucks. All you narcissistic assholes seem to do is sit around in bars and coffee shops admiring each other's tattoos and piercings. I have a suggestion for you—how about coming up with a new name for yourselves? How about "douchebags"? That sounds about right.

On heartrending bus-commute drama amongst the elderly:

To the old guy in the brown hoodie on the 12 bus Tuesday night: That guy was crying, you know that? You remember, the old Asian guy sitting in front of you—at least until you yelled at him to move to a different seat. And why? For the unforgivable crime of talking on his cellphone in a language that was not English. I don't know if you were a tea bagger or just really drunk—not that it makes a difference. Whatever it was, clearly the end result was the same—you lashed out at something your tiny brain didn't understand. That's the American way, right? The nerve of that filthy gook—doesn't he know English is the national language? Oh, wait, NO IT FUCKING ISN'T.

Let me tell you something—I see that Asian guy on the bus every night. We've never traded words, but he seems nice. Seeing one of my bus-brothers on the brink of tears thanks to some random old drunken, bigoted waste of flesh was NOT how I wanted to end my workday. I'd ask what the hell is wrong with you, but I'm pretty sure I know—30 years of smothering brain cells in grain alcohol, coupled with a seething rage at the presence of a black guy in the White House.

I wish the driver (who was clearly just as pissed as I) had tried harder to kick you off the bus—it would have been worth the delays just to see you refuse to get off and get dragged out/possibly beaten by the cops. I had a mind to catch up with you someplace quiet and teach you a lesson in bus etiquette, had you been foolish enough to get off at my stop. As it was, I had to settle for snarling "prick" at you as I stepped off. I haven't seen you since, and that suits me (and no doubt my esteemed Asian friend) just fine. I hope you choke on your own vomit. Assuming you haven't already. And to the girl sitting behind this fuckwit: Congrats on calling this drunk old waste on his bullshit.