A Coffee Cat Memoir

On Saturday, (May 25, sorry for the delay) I stumbled out my door and into the West Side Invite Third Annual Coffee Cat. I almost entered it, but the proximity of the Belmont Stumptown and my refusal to rush a quality iced Americano prevented me from competing. A Coffee Cruise, yes. Racing, no. I'll get jacked on caffeine, but I won't be rushed in the process. Alas, I digress.

Checkpoint coordinator Kimberlyn, Lance E. Pants and I got coffee from a surprised yet helpful Stumpstaff, gaffled a table and some chairs, readied the stamp and inkpad and we were set.

We got the word from from Tod Danger that the race had begun. Then, we waited. Just as Kim asked "when do you think they'll start showing up," Sharkie came rolling up Belmont, cup outstretched.

I frantically filled his cup as one cup became a wash of more wadded up cups, arms, dollar bills, yelling, complaining, water (sissies!), cream, pouring coffee onto sidewalk, more complaining about being chastised for cheating (referred to as "really wanting to win" later [ha!]) and then the jumbled mass was gone, leaving a pool of coffee and a stack of dollar bills and frazzled checkpoint attendants in their wake. In about three seconds they were gone.
Later, some stragglers rolled up, unaware of the serious nature of the event, and drank their coffee like civilized folk, even noting the tastiness and French-pressedness of their coffee.

From there, it was down to the finish line, the prestigious downtown Stumptown to see who the winner was. Of course, it was no surprise to discover that two-time Coffee Cat champ Sharkie had retained his early lead and the title while setting the tone for what would be an impressive weekend for the wily veteran.

Butt Hash?

Yes, "butt hash." I figured that the metalheads quietly packing bowls around the fire pit were making it up. Claire, Tod, Emily and Casey I chatted about a holistic approach to pet care and the met'lers no longer knew where the red lighter had come from. In an instant, everyone at the backyard soiree in North Portland was enrapt with by the mysteries and possibilities of butt hash. Was it real? Someone heard that it started in Florida. One guy, who claimed to have heard about if from another guy, explained with some confidence that one pooped into a jar and simply covered the opening with a balloon. Once the dookie had fermented enough to fill the balloon with the resulting gas, the gas was ingested, and you'd successfully gotten high on fecal matter. Still, no one could say with any definitive proof whether butt hash was a real thing.

Later on, the talk turned to Eastern religious thought and whether, if you were reincarnated as a shit-eating nutrea, would you continue to eat the poop, or not, and which option would lead to enlightenment?
Also, if Tod wins the lottery, he is going to build a house in front of the new house at the Bluffs and put a moat around it with alligators that have been genetically altered to resist the chemicals that would be needed to prevent the spread of mosquitos larvae in the moat. Also, the alligators would eat nothing but hippies.
Then it went back to butt hash.