Oregon Tavern Age: Hemorrhoid Treatment

An OTA regular limped into my local OTA joint. His body was wrecked after three decades of logging.

I was sitting at my usual table writing my usual useless love letter.

The female OTA bartender came out from behind the bar carrying a cushion and handed it to the OTA man. I stopped writing and eavesdropped. The cushion was relief from a case of hemorrhoids. A white Russian with a Coors Light chaser also eased the pain.

Hemorrhoid Man is a master profane storyteller if gets wound up.

He was wound up today and I listened to him deliver a monologue to another OTA man.

I was so stoned on gummies the last time in here I couldn’t walk.

I shot a turkey through the passenger window of my truck. I saw the damn thing in the road, drove over, powered down the window, grabbed the shotgun, and blasted the son-of-a-bitch in the face. Took him home and cooked him up for supper.

I love eating quail. I saw an old guy in Italy gut one with a knife, rip out all the meat, and fry it up in olive oil. Fucking delicious.

My buddy’s terminally ill so I told him to walk five miles on the beach every morning, then fish and drink, until one day he died.

I’ve got to get a new fucking dog—a bird dog. Not a fucking Chihuahua.

He kept on riffing but I went back to the useless love letter. As I was writing, I wondered if I am the only writer in America who writes about taverns and bars like I do. I mean is there someone writing about Montana Tavern Life or Michigan Tavern Life, and publishing them like I have for two decades? There has to be.