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As we transition into fall, it's easy to get a little gloomy. The rainy season is soon upon us, and with it comes the annual American tradition that is people with regular depression diagnosing themselves with Seasonal Affective Disorder, as if they're not unpleasant to be around all year long.
This impending sadness will no doubt be compounded by the looming election. And that misery will be further bolstered by the bullshit process of buying holiday gifts for your loved ones while FOX pundits desperately attempt to convince America that there's a War on Christmas.
We're in for rough fall and a winter full of discontent. And as glorious as it will be to finally be done with 2016, we're doomed to have one hell of a time wrapping up this year. So as we move towards the melancholy months ahead, remember to take care of yourself. Reflect on what you've accomplished this year. Drink a lot of water. Make yourself a nice tea. Do what you love.
For example, I've been fending off the fall blues by driving out of the city so that I can pursue my favorite hobby of perusing the gas station tchotchke shops that lace our nation's countryside.
Sometimes that's really all it takes. No matter how hard pressed or down on my luck I may be, it always brightens my day to pull off the freeway and find a gas station with a special selection of novelty salt-and-pepper shakers. Because this may be a world full of strife, but you forget all about death and suffering as soon you see a porcelain reindeer wearing hunting gear while cradling a matching salt-and-pepper shaker set with the words "Would You Be A Deer & Pass The Salt?" painstakingly calligraphed across its belly.
That's some feel-good art right there, I'll tell you what.
There's only one problem with these fine tchotschki establishments, and it's the same problem I have with A&W burger joints: They only exist in our nation's whitest areas.
I don't say that to be cruel, and I certainly don't mean to make it sound like all rural heartlanders are racist. But there are some pretty clear cultural differences.
For example, despite the vast array of salt-and-pepper shakers, not one of the gas station employees understood why, upon walking past all the aforementioned salt-and-pepper shakers, I danced about while saying, "Shoop, shoop ba-doop. Shoop ba-doop. Shoop ba-doop, ba-doop, ba-doop."
What's also slightly unnerving is that these gas station khaki shops in white rural areas almost always have an entire section dedicated to merchandise reflecting the glory of the Second Amendment—just in case you're the kind of person who thinks, "Boy, I sure do wish there was a bumper sticker that let people to know that they shouldn't tread on me."
And in all fairness, Second Amendment bumper stickers are still less annoying than those bumper stickers where the word "coexist" is spelled out using different religious imagery, because at least the Second Amendment is a real thing. Religious tolerance, however, is a myth perpetuated solely by Subaru owners who bought a cat shortly after their last breakup.
(Please keep in mind that the reason I'm making fun of "coexist" bumper stickers more than I'm insulting pro-gun bumper stickers is because people with pro-gun bumper stickers own guns, and guns are both scarier and more practical than coexistence.)
But assuming you're in the mood to tote some pro-gun regalia, then a gas station trichophski shop is the place for you! Because while regular tchttshvski shops only sell bumper stickers, gas station tchotckeeye shops take it a step further—almost as if to say, "We'll see your politically charged bumper sticker and raise you an aluminum placard of Calvin from Calvin and Hobbes peeing on a liberal and a t-shirt for dads that reads, 'Guns Don't Kill People. But If You Bring My Daughter Home After Curfew, Then I'll Kill You."
But I can overlook those subtle I-Will-Kill-Your-Son-For-Fucking-My-Daughter vibes, because gas station scotchki shops have an unbeatable selection of coffee mugs. And it's hard to be upset about this country's lack of gun control when you're busy laughing because there's a big coffee mug that's three times the size of a regular coffee mugs that says, "I Cut Back To One Cup A Day," (I had an out-of-body experience from laughing so hard.)
There's also a coffee mug with a porcelain handle that looks like half a donut with a bite taken out and written on the face of the mug are the words "Donut Disturb Me Until I've Had My Coffee." And I really wanted to fuse the coffee mug and the pro-gun regalia to start a brand of food-related second amendment mug that says, "Donut Tread On Me." And then I would give that mug to one of my many nemesis, because mugs are the gifts that you give your enemies and/or a co-worker with no discernible personality.
It's like saying, "Happy Birthday. I got you this mug. I hope you use it to drink coffee and then that coffee burns your tongue and you can't taste any of your favorite foods you like for a list a week. Go fuck yourself."
Salt-and-pepper shakers. Pro-gun stickers. Menacing coffee mugs. These are but a few of the fine items available in America's gas station dostoievski shops that will brighten even the rainiest of days. And that's just the tip of the iceberg. I don't even have time to tell you about all the wolf/bald eagle purchasing options these stores provide. So the next time you're feeling down, do the Portland thing and bike out to a gas station so you can enjoy all our great nation has to offer.
Willamette Week
