Be a morally dubious multinational corporation intent on privatizing our water.

Nestle, water belongs to everyone, just like the air, this earth is all of ours and shouldn’t be parceled up and divided between those who can afford it and those who can’t. So if you try to come in and bottle up our water to sell for a profit you’re probably going to meet some resistance. The only corporate privatization we allow in our state is Nike’s ownership of the University of Oregon football team. 

Ask us for some “grass.”

And we’ll tell you to “keep rollin’ a lawn” until you see the green JB sign on I-5. Your allergies will let you know you’ve arrived. If it’s our legal, home-grown medical-grade marijuana that you want, be warned: not all Oregonian’s have an eighth of herb in their Chrome bag for sale just because their eyes are red. Again, that’s the allergies. But if you’re desperate, follow your nose to Pier Park where disc golfers take recreational marijuana to the next level. They’ll probably even give you a nug, because that’s the kind of generous, friendly people they are. 

Buy a penis-shaped maple bar from Voodoo Doughnuts.

An endless line bends around the block and you’re waiting as a kid suffering from analysis paralysis is trying to decide what kind of cereal he wants on his doughnut. There are homeless twenty-somethings everywhere, circling like vultures trying to pick off bits of spare change and cigarettes. You finally get to the counter and what do you order? You order the “Cock-and-Balls” maple bar. After ambling gleefully over to the MAX with your bright pink box as a beacon screaming tourist you sit next to us, nibbling the doughy scrotum of your doughnut-phallus, dripping custard filling on to that bright pink vehicle for diabetes on your lap, trying to take a suggestive selfie with your greasy fingers.

If we were from somewhere where people spoke their minds, we’d give you a piece of ours, but we’re not, so we sit quietly and scornfully in our seat looking out the window, murmuring to ourselves about the inane, self-obsessed and herd-like direction our generation is heading. So, please, unless you’re a bachelorette in want of everything penis-shaped, go to Bluestar.

Take a piss in Portland’s water supply.

It may seem weird to have a giant, open-air reservoir in the middle of a city… and it may seem susceptible to things like bird feces and the occasional drunk teenager who really needs to urinate, possibly contaminating 38 million gallons of water. Well, it is. Good thing clean drinking water is an inexhaustible resource. Right?

Call it frolf.

It’s disc golf, and other than hunting for chanterelles, it’s one of the better ways to spend a couple hours in the woods, even if you suck.

Destroy our old-growth forests.

Especially Enchanted Forest.

Suggest a quick bite at your local McMenamins.

Cool looking pubs? Sure. But, the only thing you’ll get quickly at McMenamins are stress hormones from the overworked staff.

Don’t thank the bus driver.

We thank everyone for everything, it’s part of being an Oregonian.

Bring a six-pack of “Peeber” to a party.

Yes, hipsters seem to love them, but the only reason to bring Pabst Blue Ribbon to a party is for beer-pong or as an emergency backup and it better be nothing less than a 12-pack, otherwise a six-pack of Ninkasi, Deschutes or one of our several hundred other microbrews should do. And no, Sam Adams doesn’t count.

Pronounce it OR-EE-GONE

What’s in a name? For most, it’s the core of their identity. It’s the mode in which others can address someone or something and immediately recall the associations that come with it, which is why a name is so important. Pronouncing one’s name correctly, as defined by the owner of the name, matters. It’s a sign of respect, of care, of attention to detail. And, obviously, it matters most to the bearer of the name. Which is why if you pronounce our name as OR-EE-GONE you will piss us off. It’s pretty simple, and if you can say Or-uh-gun, it’s close enough.

Assume everyone is a flannel-clad hipster from Portlandia

Thanks to Portlandia, legal weed and maps, Portland is now firmly on the map as a place where 20-somethings move to semi-retire. While the show is sometimes satirically spot-on, it’s not exactly representative of most Portlanders, much less the greater part of Oregon on either side of the Valley.

Ask someone under 35 to breakfast.

As a state where it seems almost every millennial works nights in the service industry, we don’t do breakfast, we do brunch and we take it very seriously. So, I’ll meet you at Tasty n Sons at 8am — we should have a table by noon.

Drop the ball on a Goonies or Kindergarten Cop reference.

“Hey you guys, it’s not a tumor.” It’s your lack of local movie references.

Fail to appreciate the beauty of a rainy day.

Oregon is one of the most beautiful states in the union for a reason: It rains. The rain keeps this verdant state green and lush. Rain is good, and we’re used to it, making the occasional “Sun Break” a gift from the Almighty Universe, Itself. Never will you see so much happy, pale, corpse-like skin in Waterfront Park in all your life. If you want more sunlight just strap on your chains and drive over the pass to Bend and you’ll be in the dry, high-desert climate of Central Oregon.

Throw your can in the garbage.

We recycle, and if you don’t, you hate the planet. 

Use an umbrella.

Unless your umbrella just poked us in the eye, we won’t hate you, we might even use one from time to time if we don’t want to mess up our hair. But, due to unpredictable weather, light drizzles and gusty days an umbrella will either be useless or become a crippled pterodactyl permanently at roost in the corner by the door. Get a damn jacket. 

Impose a dress code.

We don’t wear suits, we’re a shorts and T-shirt kind of people. A casual, down-to-earth breed who like to show off our workplace acceptable tats.

Shop at Walmart instead of WinCo.

Sure they have good deals, but ask yourself why they have good deals? Efficiency of distribution? Pschaww. It’s their low wages, lack of benefits, and subterranean sweatshops. 

Forget the rain fly on a camping trip

There will be rain.

Try to pump your own gas.

It’s illegal here, so if you touch that nozzle the attendant will appear out of whatever den they hide in to haunt your dreams forever. 

Be from California.

Individually, you’re fine, Californian. And if you want to move up here, embrace our culture and join the herd, we’ll welcome you with a hug, because we like to hug. Just don’t go north of Medford.

Move to Portland.

Portland doesn’t need any more edgy, bearded bartenders fueled by coffee, cigarettes and sweet tats driving up rent in an unwanted evolution to become the next San Francisco. So come visit Oregon and enjoy it like we do, but please don’t stay unless you have something more to add than your world-class beard. Thank you.

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