Most Famous Stories in the Portland Review

What is this? Helen. They want me to tell them more stories about famous foist stories in The Portland Review? Christ. I got a stomach problems. God. These kids don’t care. Fine. Fine!

Back in 1853 I was a clerk for a law firm on wall street, and since I’m a rather elderly guy today it might be hard for me to remember, but I did meet Herman Melville.


Mell, as his friend’s preferred not to call him, was a janitor sweeping all up over my firm. He kept coming by and asking me questions.

“Hello good sir.”

“What can I do ya for?” I said, doing some very important paperwork.

“Were you asleep?”

“Just restin’ my eyes, kiddo. What’s up?”

I was up shitcrick. This no nothing party member janitor found me napping at work. Now I made a handsome salary in those days, which was about seventeen cents a month. God, could you live like a king on that. I used to eat nothing but ham, which is odd because I’m a chosen person, if you know what I mean. What? Oh come on Helen. I’m just kidding. My uncle was in the vaudeville. Zeppo Marx. You know. The Marx Brother that the Marx Brother’s all hated. Zeppo. Yeah yeah.

“Good sir, can you do me a favor,” this Herman kid asked. “Could you read this story of mine, and start a literary magazine and publish it?”

“Kid, I don’t know the foist thing about publishing. I’m not even sure I know how to read.”

And then he pulled a gun on me and the Lone Ranger came out with Hemingway riding him instead of a horse and I took a nosh from the onion on my belt, which was not the style at the time because onions had just gone out of style, and well. Blackmail is such an ugly word. That’s what Hermy said. Uh.

Helen. I need a Fresca. What? Sanka? Well, that’s not the same. Sigh. Whatever.

And that’s how Tin House got started. Now stop calling me.




Most Famous Stories in the Portland Review

Hiya folks, this is Morty here again. I’m here to tell yas about the most famousest stories ever poiblished in The Portland Review. You can read part unos of this exciting new venture here: Not there! Here!

Now, before we go onta today’s story, let’s see if we can’t find us a bedder pitture of me. Morty. The second editor-in-chef for the rag. Now, back in those days the positions was called editor-in-chef and not capitalized because you worked for the cafeteria at the university and were considered worse than dogshit. Goddamned privileged students. But I diegress.

Oh jumping Jesus on a pogo stick. Helen! Ya been futzing with my computer box again! I don’t want to… oh…


Yeah. Anywhom. It’s unfortunabadly that we can’t find use a pitture of me this week, but next!

Today I’ll be talking about publishing Richard Yates’s Jody Rolled Some Bones.

Now, dis was the story that made all Dick famous. Foist published in The Portland Review in the late 50’s (1950’s or 1850’s, I can’t really remember) and then later picked up by some rag by the name o Harper’s Atlantic. 

It’s a classic story about sodgers in World War deuce and how their lives are decided by luck, no control over nothing. What? Sodger? You know, Helen. Like those guys who go to the wars. S-O-L-D-I-E-R-S. Sodgers. Christ. Ya got too much cream in yer ears. Gotta get rid o that infection.

So, originally Yates included this description of his ex-wife in the middle of the story:

goddamned cunt motherfucker cigarette need must kill all mother fucker mother fucker mother fucker.

And I cleaned that up for public consumption. Now this really disrupted the narrative, so I called Yates up.

“Hello Richard,” I said.

“You cockshit,” he said, “what do you want?”

“I’ve got a question about this story of yours that we agreed to publish.”

“You can’t not publish it. No backsies.”

Now, at that point I realized that that was true. No backsies. So I resolved to READ every submission sent to us, and not just pick a few at random. Had that written in the charter. So that’s why The Portland Review reads every submission now, unlike some rags out there today.

“Right,” I said. “I know, but you’ve got this paragraph of profanities in the middle of the story. You got them goys at the base being drilled by the sarge or whatever. And then you stop the story to go on this five-page-one-paragraph rant about your ex-wife.”

“Did you know that my daughter is dating some fruitcake with a candy-striped coat? Bald Jew.”

“Well, Richard. This might soiproise ya, but I’m a bald Jew.”

“What do you want?”

“Could you edit some o that profanities out? Not all of it, mind you, I think it’s good. But just some of it. Also, all of your stories seem to be about either sodgers. TB patients. Failed sculptoring ladies. Failed marriages. And guys who write ad copy and want to be real writers.”

“Fuck you.”

Needless to say I wanted to pull the story, but published it with that five-page-one-paragraph rant o cuss words. Then the Atlantic Herper’s took  it and then cut that pagraph out. Pussies.


What? Helen? Whaddya mean this story was had been low-hanging fruit? It was true. And that’s all that matters. Years later Richard came up to me and said, “Thank you for being the foist to publisher me. I wouldn’t be the sexcessful alcoholic I am today if it weren’t for you.”

Eh. I should get an assistant to type tings out for me.

Until next of the time!

More Dumb Search Terms

Well, there am be some change rumblings at The Review. More on that later. But first! Here are some more dumb search terms you’ve used to get here! Hurrah!

1) Julie Newmar Ass

For the record, let’s see what I can find on the Internet regarding this:


2) Getting Dog to Wear Doggles

Sarah Marshall was just asking me, Michael Magnes, the other day. Q: How do you getting dog to wear doggles? A: Practice! I mean. Carefully! I mean. Leave me alone!

3) Asshole Eat

I assume this is in reference to that time Anthony Bourdain ate a warthog anus on None of the Reservations. Or, you want to learn more about Kevin Smith!!/ThatKevinSmith/statuses/3537690616143872

4) Fresh Cum on Her Face After Nice Sex Spanish Sex Porn Sex Vid

No one likes spoiled cum on a face. Cum goes bad quickly… aw… hell… after nice sex? What about not so nice sex… ahh… I got nothing on this one. HEY! DID YOU KNOW THAT THERE IS PORNOGRAPHY ON THE INTERNET!?

5) We Hate Cats

We sure do!

6) Fart Catcher

What, like a baseball mitt made to catch farts? Phew. I’ve been trying to make that for years. We don’t have the technology.

7) Rock

You know that you’re depressed if you find yerself searching for “rock” on the Internet. You know what the next most common search term is? Noose.

8) Watch Man’s Face While Getting Blowjob

So, you don’t want to get blow, you just want to watch a man’s face, a man who is getting blown? Way to live life!

Happy Thursday!


Most Famous Stories in the Portland Review

Hiya folks, this is Morty here. No last name. Just Morty. I work for the Portland Review. Hey. Should that “The” be capitalized? Hah. I guess so. I was never able to quite figure that one out. So. Hiya folks. Morty here. And I made a mistake. I used to work for The Portland Review. You see, I’m eighty-nine years old. What? Oh. Sorry. My wife is telling me that I’m fifty-six. Either way, I used to work for the, I mean, The Portland Review back in the day. Here’s a picture of me:

Hey. I thought I had more hair. And more face.

So, one of the young punks who works for the, cripes, The Portland Review asked me to comment on some of the more famous works that have graced our fine feathered pages. Michael Magnes was his name. Managing Editing was his game. I can only assume that he’s dead now, since most Managing Editors only last a few days. It’s a vicious position, why I myself moidered seventeen of my Managing Editors back in my day. Course, it was legal to do so. What? Honey? Moidered? You know. Moidered. When you kill some goy. What? Not a Gentile. A Goy. G-U-Y. Christ. Ya got whitefish in yer ears Helen? Moidered? M-U-R-D-E-R-E-D-E-D, uh. Anywhom.

Magnes asked me to comment on some of the most famous stories in The Portland Review. Here’s the first installment. The foist of many I hope. What? What do you mean my accent isn’t consistent?

A Small Good Thing by Raymond Carver.

Ah. The famous Ray Carve. Everyone knows this story. It’s about a breadmaker or a goat or something. Foist published in 1983, I believe. No. 1982. See, most people thing that it was published in Ploughsares in 1983, but those creeps just copied our pages. And they actually paid Ray. You know, I agreed to publish it over a cup o Sanka, Sanka being the only beverage available in Portland at the time. God it was awful. That first line: Saturday afternoon she drove to the bakery in the shopping center.

Originally read: Saturday evening she drove to the bakery in the shopping center.

“Jesus,” I said to Ray. “Why would anyone go to a bakery in the evening?”

“Because,” he said, as he lighted a cigarette, “baked goods.”

“That ain’t an answer.”

“What’s in an answer,” he said, sipping his Sanka.

“You creep,” I said. “Lissen. Change that line to afternoon. Also, instead of a bakery how about a shampoo store? Everyone needs shampoo.”


And then he sent me the story with that one line-change, evening to afternoon, so I figured that he changed everything I asked him to. So I lighted a cigarette and published it. Three years later I read it and realized that creep didn’t do a goddamned thing.

So I called Ray up and said, “Jesus Christ, you crumb bum. How dare you not lissen to my changes. I’m the goddamned editor.”

“Morty,” he said, “calm down.”


“You know how the story ends?”

“What, with the people eating the bread after their dog or something has died?”

“Yeah,” he said, “dog.”

“And you wrote, smell this it’s heavy and rich and they smell it and they taste it and it taste coarse and sweet and it’s a small good thing after all of the tragedy that has befallen them?”

“Yep,” he said, “after their dog was eaten by a Leopard.”

“Hmm. Maybe you should change that to their kid?”

“I lighted a cigarette.”

“I’m just saying. Also, Shampoo is home-ier.”

“No,” he said, drinking a Sanka, “it isn’t.”

“Are you drinking a Sanka?”

“Sanka is a small good thing.”

“It tastes like shit.”

And then he hung up.


Well folks, hope you enjoyed the first installment of “Most Famous Stories in The Portland Review.” Noice to be back here. Morty out. What? Helen? You need more cream? Sure. I’ll just go to the bakery and purchase some. TiVo me the program. You know. The one with the negros on it. What? I can’t hear you. Eh.

Headlines from the Hollywood Star News

There’s a neighborhood named Hollywood in Portland, Oregon.

The best newspaper in the world, The Hollywood Star News, services this magical area. Here are some of the best headlines. Also, this does not make us like Jay Leno and this does not justify Jay Leno. He should still kill himself.

1) Poor Richard’s Closes, Masonic Temple Sold

2) Another Meeting

3) Sandy Paving Gets Serious

4) Pizza Schmizza Oozes West

5) Buddhist Retreat Moves Forward

6) New Shipper of Big, Awkward Things

More like HollyWEIRD, guys

The Lost Roles of Orson Welles

Orson Welles was the bestest and most famousest American Actor ever since that guy who played Eddie in Eddie and Some of His Cruisers. Orson Welles made the entire state of New Jersey think that aliens were attacking it, which shouldn’t really isn’t that impressive in retrospect. He also ate a lot of ham, was a famous burnout, and made a bunch of good movies. His last American film was the Transformers movie (the animated one for all of you creeps who are under twenty-five). He died in 1980 something. I would look it up but does the internet have a database for the birth and death of actors and other such useless information?

Orson turned down a lot of roles. Here’s a few of them. Also, this: Orson Welles almost made a Batman thing and this was entirely real and not an April Fool’s joke at all. 

1) Willy Wonka

Internet. Please stop using this picture.

I know I know. I thought this wasn’t real either, but apparently Orson demanded that the chocolate river be real chocolate (which doesn’t look like chocolate on screen. It looks like bats.), instead of caramel (which looks like chocolate), and that he be able to drink it.  Everyday. That’s not too unusual, drinking a chocolate river everyday, but the really weird thing was that  he demanded that it be refilled each day at seven a.m. Sigh. I really wish this wasn’t real. I mean, it just seems so vulgar… oh well Orson Welles was fat so of course all he did was eat and make weird demands for food. If it looks like a duck then it must eat like a duck….. anywhom. Here are some more better ones.

2) The Bat in The Bat Book Man: 

No. This has nothing to do with the superhero. In 1956 a man named Michael Magnes published a book on bats titled: The Bat Book: The Book on Bats by Michael Magnes. The book was the runaway best seller in 1956 and was full of lots previously unknown information on bats. For instance, bats are mined in caves like cheese. Bats are inter-dimensional creatures that only appear in our dimension in brief blips, and you have to have a special inter-dimensional net to catch them. Bat meat is poisonous when combined with bread.

Orson was set to adapt the book into a Beautiful Mind type deal. He was going to play all of the roles, including the bats. Eventually, in 1958 it came out that Michael Magnes was a fraud, didn’t know anything about bats (but did know everything about shoes), and was found dead in a field with his throat cut. Needless to say the project was abandoned, but if you search hard enough you can find footage of Orson in a bat costume going, “screeeeeeeech!” and flapping his wings.

3) The Paul Newman Story

This picture makes me feel..... funny

In 1972 Orson Welles became convinced that Paul Newman had drowned in a train crash. The fact that Paul Newman was still acting in films, despite his death, greatly disturbed Orson. He knew, just fucking knew, that Paul was a hologram. The first hologram in the world. The stuff of science fiction made real. So Orson was all set to shoot a movie about that when uh… this happened:

Paul Newman

Uh, Orson. Can I talk to you?

Orson Welles

My God! Yeees.

Paul Newman

So, uh, I hear that you’re working on this movie called the Death of Paul Newman.

Orson Welles

I know I know. I should have talked to you, but I wanted my documentary to be untainted  by your point of view. I would have fallen for your lies.

Paul Newman

And the movie

Orson Welles


Paul Newman


Orson Welles

No! Not whatever! Call the spade the ace and the ace of the spade!

Paul Newman

Yeah, whatever. Your movie is about how I’m dead and how the government made a hologram of me and using that to support genocide across the globe and elect more republicans into office.

Orson Welles

And to deplete the world’s ham supply.

Paul Newman

And the bat supply. In fact, there are a lot of bats in this script as well.

Orson Welles

I once read the book on bats:  The Bat Book: The Book on Bats: By Michael Magnes. I have been enchanted by those delightful creatures ever since.

Paul Newman

It says here that I’m trying to corner the market on the bat pelt industry, as a hologram, and that one bat pelt is worth 1500 hundred bucks.

Orson Welles

Well, adjusting for stagflation that should be higher. Or lower. I’m not sure.

Paul Newman

Well, regardless.

Orson Welles


Paul Newman

I’m not dead.

Orson Welles

Yes you are.

Paul Newman

No. I’m very much alive. And not a hologram. And a democrat.

Orson Welles


(Punches Paul Newman in the gut in an attempt to pass his hand through Newman’s torso)

My God! He’s a man now! They’ve perfected cloning!

(Orson Runs away)

This turned into F for Fake

4) Larry in Hello, Larry

 Hello, Larry is the official sitcom of Portland, Oregon. It’s about a radio shrink who moved from L.A. to Portland because he was too much of a failure. In Portland, he had a call in radio show (ala Frasier), a morbidly obese sound engineer (replaced by Meadowlark Lemon), and uh… that’s about it. A pretty bitchin’ theme song.

Anywhom. Orson didn’t seriously consider this. He heard that there was this place in Portland called Voodoo donuts where they make regular donuts and then put unappetizing things on them like tires, condoms, and stale cereal. Orson was quoting as saying, “Portland should be wiped off the face of the Earth.”

5) Fred in The Flinstones

In 1978, fresh off The Deer Hunter, Michael Cimino was prepping an adaptation of The Flinstones. “Orson (Welles) is Fred,” he said in an interview to the Portland Review. “I will only make this film if Orson is aboard.”

So Orson signed on. It was all dandy until Michael saw the set of Bedrock. It didn’t have enough rocks in it, so he made the crew tear the set down and rebuild it, but rebuild it exactly the same, with the same material, but with three more rocks. They did so. That cost the studio seventeen million dollar. And then Orson said he would only work with “live dinosaurs.”

Michael Cimino

But Orson. Dinosaurs are extinct.

Orson Welles

Pah! And the next thing you’ll be telling me is that Paul Newman is alive.

Michael Cimino

I could have the studio build me a time machine.

Orson Welles

Do it! And bring me more bats

Michael Cimino

You know. I read the book on bats, The Bat Book: The Book on Bats By Michael Magnes and you really shouldn’t be eating bread with that bat. You’ll die in 1985.

Orson Welles

Feh! That book was all hocum and no pocum. I’ll be fine. Why, if I die in 1985 I’ll eat me hat.

And then he did! Eat his hat. Also, die.

In “Bagelgate,” Portland, Ore., burns to ground

MFA students at PSU prime suspects.

April 5, 2012


Portland, Ore.—”MFA?” said a confused Portlander. “Why would anyone want to go to school to be an asshole?” He paused, thoughtfully. “Well, I guess if you wanted to be a professional asshole. Need the degree I suppose.”

Other Portlanders were more hopeful. “I am hopeful,” said one named Cameron, “that an artisanal artisan cart will open up so that they can charge at least four bucks per bagel,” Cameron said. “I hate spending less than four bucks on a single bagel. Plus,” he added, “they can start putting unappetizing things on my bagels like Voodoo donuts does, tires, or used condoms.”

“I hate getting bagels and having to put the unappetizing things on them myself,” he continued. “Those used condoms start to smell if I don’t keep them in the refrigerator, and I share my refrigerator with four other dopes who need to keep their vegetables and Tab cold, so I’ll be glad once the artisanal artisans start putting the unappetizing toppings on the bagels for me.”

Others, however, are less hopeful. “I am less hopeful,” said another Cameron. “Undoubtedly, people will hear of this new cart and it will be ruined. Like when everyone started listening to Chromatics because Pitchfork gave their new album ‘best new music.’ Bagels should be underground. I am willing to pay at least eight dollars for a single bagel,” he said. “If you pay fewer than that you don’t showcase your disposable income,” he added, “and white entitlement. Did you know I got my degree from PSU and I am very bitter about that.”

Portland State MFA students have declined to comment on the record, but one, speaking on condition of anonymity, said she was “proud of this righteous act of revolution,” and those left in the city can expect to see more actions similar to this in the future. “Until we have our underground, overpriced bagels back, or a suitable replacement that is even more underground and even more overpriced, we will continue along this same trajectory,” she said. “Our disposable income is not to be ignored.”

‎”Also,” she added, “I’d like to remind everyone that I was highly displeased with the results from my MFA program, but,” she said, “thankfully it was due to my sour attitude.”

A rep from Kettleman’s responded, “I now have the disposable income with which to purchase many ridiculous bagels and look forward to the day when stale Kettleman’s bagels will be placed on normal bagels, which would make them artisanal artisan bagels.” In the coming weeks, slightly used Kettleman’s bagels are expected to rise in value, according to economics expert Ryan Eichelberger.

‎”Bagels are a particularly hot item in today’s market,” Eichelberger said. “White people with disposable income are flocking in droves to buy them. Yesterday’s bagel sandwich was a bagel, sliced in half, filled with meat or vegetables. Today’s bagel sandwich is a bagel, sliced in half, filled with a bagel.”

Reluctant Portland resident and former New Yorker Mike Grey had this to say, “West coasters don’t know what a bagel means,” he said while purchasing thirty-six-dozen poppy seed bagels. “I’m going to make a killing with this,” he said. “Do you remember that show Ducktales? With that old duck who had that bin full of money, and it was so full of all of the money that he was able to swim in all of the money? Well, these slightly used bagels will enable me to do that.” Asked what would happen if he couldn’t sell the bagels, Grey responded: “Then I will have a lot of bagels,” he said. “I can swim in those.” He took a bite out of a bagel to make it authentically slightly used. Slightly used bagels need that bite mark to be authenticated by local bagelologists. Right now, according to the Bloomberg index, one slightly used Kettlemans’s poppy seed bagel is worth fifteen dollars.

As of press time, Grey was wrestling with an MFA student outside the remains of the NE Broadway Kettleman’s, smoke rising from the ashes behind them.

By Mollet & Magnes