On the surface, Oregon seems like a lovely place.
It occupies 96,003 square miles of the continental US, making it the tenth largest state, and is ranked 28th in terms of population (3,316,154, give or take, including missing and returned abductees). It was admitted to the union in 1859, and was the 33rd state to join. The state capital is Salem, the state song is "Oregon my Oregon," the state animal is the Castor canadensis (which they seem to think is the American Beaver, but can I be the only one who sees canadensis and doesn't immediately think American?), the state bird is the Western Meadowlark, the state fish is the Chinook Salmon, the state insect (no, really) it the Oregon Swallowtail, the state flower is the Oregon grape (yeah, I wondered about that one, too) and the state rock (no kidding) is the thunder-egg geode. It's known nationally and internationally for its beautiful lakes, rivers, mountains, valleys, and among some, at least, for being very plausible. If you click on this, you'll be connected to the Oregon State Bluebook, where they'll be happy to tell you all this, and more. Much, much more.
What they fail to mention, however, is that Oregon is a hotbed of not only alien activity (more on that later) but also of freaky phenomenon. It is, for example, the home of the aptly named Oregon Vortex, a conical whirlpool of unnatural force, where balls roll uphill, trees twist into serpentine coils, radio signals become lost or distorted, watches stop, human spines expand and contract, and tourists plunk down good money for t-shirts that read *I Visited The Oregon Vortex, and All I Got was Dazed, Disoriented, and Swept In and Out of Another Dimension*(See photo below) There, too, you will find Hart's Reptile Museum, where a serial killer appears to be stalking the scaled residents, the Nike half-price store, Hitler's stamp collection (don't ask), and the Twenty Four Hour Church of Elvis.
Sounds like paradise, doesn't it? You're probably reaching for your cell phone and trying to remember your travel agent's phone number as we speak.
And that, of course, is the whole point. Oregon is a sweet seductress, a siren's song, a veritable Mulder-magnet. Add to the aforementioned a high rate of cattle mutilations, unexplained lights in the sky, time having a way of wandering off and getting completely lost, and residents who appear and disappear at random intervals, often with new bits of hardware installed, and it's almost more than a heart can stand.
Put the phone down, bud.
Oregon may be perfectly nice for a whole lot of people, but you aren't one of them.
Let's examine the facts, shall we?
--- The Original's first recorded trip to Oregon involved radios adjusting and readjusting themselves, clocks going haywire, confused compasses, a close up and personal view of his half-naked partner, a sudden, inexplicable need to vandalize the highway with incredibly durable orange spray paint, a hotel fire, destroyed evidence, lots and lots of rain, a black-out, alien implants, nine minutes of lost time, and no sex.
--- The Original's last recorded trip to Oregon (well, okay, last two trips, but who's counting?) involved a crashed, cloaked UFO, an alien bounty hunter or two, bright lights, a trip into the ionosphere (and all the torture that comes with it), a visit to the bit of highway previously vandalized (i.e. returning to the scene of the crime), a nauseous partner, and no sex.
See a trend? An ugly, sexless trend?
Oregon is not for you, Bro. Not even a little.
My advice? When you and your Significant Other are making vacation plans, (which means, of course, you are happily and willingly doing all the actual work; it's who you are, it's what you do) think Hawaii.
Think England, and a visit to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's Grave.
Think Paris by moonlight (wear garlic and take a silver bullet or two).
Think Vancouver, and pack an umbrella
Hell, think Washington DC and what the two of you might do on that bench by the Reflecting Pool.
You'll both be happier in the long run.
And there'll probably be more sex.
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