I should obviously be invested in this whole Peegate fiasco.

It's the only thing that makes any sense for me to write about. It doesn't matter if it's real or fake, confirmed or alleged; I'm responsible for a weekly humor column dedicated to topical ongoings, and a despised elected official has just been accused of hiring prostitutes to purposefully wet the bed.

By the time I heard about it, the story had evolved from Donald Trump enlisting courtesans to urinate on a hotel mattress where the Obamas had once slept to a tall tale about The Donald hiring a few fille de joies to take a communal leak right on top of him as he cooed and came in ecstasy.

Clearly, some embellishment were made and a few details were exaggerated. But, you know what? I'm not a journalist. I don't have to do research or report on the truth, I just have to be topically irreverent. So really, the "news" that our new President may have hired call girls to drain the swamp all over his face should sound like music to my ears. It's the kind of rumor that should send me on a mad-dash of provocative punchlines with setups dripping in yellowish, murky innuendo.

But I write for a Portland based newspaper, and thus I feel an obligation to maintain a stereotypically Portlandian dedication to being somewhat reluctantly sex positive.

Before living in Portland, I used to think that some things were gross and off-limits, or that certain aspects of sex were too taboo to be openly discussed. But since moving here, I've learned that the world is a peculiar place full of perverted people, and that it's my civic responsibility to pretend to be okay with that. I'm no longer awkward around the outspoken sexuality of others. Now, if someone walks up to me and says, "I can only cum with a feather up my ass," I don't shy away from the conversation. Instead, I say, "Okay. Well, I don't know that we need to be talking about that in a McMenamins, but I appreciate your candor, and I'm proud of you for loving yourself."

Do I still think that some things are gross and off putting? Of course, but I'm trying to be more accommodating to other people's feelings. I mean, I just used a thesaurus to look up a series of synonyms for the word "prostitute" because I'm legitimately concerned that I might offend someone if I use the word "hooker." And that's fine!

Living in Portland has forced me to use a thesaurus plenty of times, and while part of me feels that prostitutes probably have bigger problems than the semantics of their prefered nomenclature, I still appreciate how necessary it is that we work to accept and oblige people from all walks of life.

It's just that now, after years of reading sad blog posts about how important it is to absolutely always be empathetic, I don't know if I'm allowed to make fun of Trump's literal pissing contest in a city as notoriously sensitive as Portland.

And listen, I know how it goes: Someone says that Portland is sensitive, and then Portlandians respond by getting defensive—thus proving the point. But please know that I don't view sensitivity as inherently bad. Do I think that most of Portland's infamously thin-skinned brand of liberalism is a hypocritical put on? Absolutely. That being said, I'd like to believe that many Portland residents actively strive to make people of all genders, sexualities, and kinks feel included, and that involves being sensitive to the needs of others.

Portland has taught me that all things sexual should be championed and respected, so how can I make fun of a man for allegedly getting peed on?

After all, if a typical male Portlandian told me that he had once hired a prostitute to drip piss on his head, I'd say, "Okay. That's cool, man. Different strokes for different folks. Anyways, when you get the chance, I'll take another PBR and I'm still waiting on those cajun tots."

So now, I either have to accept that most of the liberals making fun of Trump are self-serving jackasses who don't actually believe in their own moral codes yet unabashedly preach a "do as I say, not as I do" philosophy; or I have to acknowledge that it's still technically morally wrong to make fun of Donald Trump for his tiny hands or his orange skin or his bad toupe or for purportedly hiring working girls to shower him in hot streams of piss like he's a dirty Daddy Warbucks in charge of running an ill-conceived triple-X orphanage.

And that's tough, because I want to believe that people are truly dedicated to their causes just as much as I want normal people who like getting peed on to feel loved, proud, and joyful. But I also want to laugh at the image of Donald Trump jumping off a diving board into a urine-soaked mattress like he's a depraved cross between Scrooge McDuck and Max Hardcore.

So I think that maybe, just maybe, whoever decides the law of sex positivity ought to consider adding a new clause to the moral rule: You shouldn't make fun of anyone's sexual desires, unless that person is the President of the United States and/or the harbinger of nuclear death.

Let the erotic fan-fic begin.