I meant to write Portland is underseige but it came out underserved. Wham! It hit me. People don’t realize how true this is. A Saturday morning on Facebook meant reading about the aftermath of the previous night’s protest and the Feds vs protesters situation along with posts about the mask/no mask controversy. When I found myself reading about CIMBYs I was clobbered. I’m a CIMBY. The post was too clever to be real. I missed the part of the initial post that labelled it satire. Dissenting opinions were met with tact, surrealistic wit and no one who commented was beaten perjoratively about the head and shoulders.

CIMBY, in case you’re wondering, is Chipotle In My Backyard. The crux of a joke that I couldn’t accept because I realized I never want to not be within two miles of a Chipotle. Ever. I started to sweat realizing I wasn’t sure where the nearest Chipotle was. Two miles is easily covered by a light jog. Anything else means getting in a car or running further. As I write this I thought of the Chipotle in NE near the Lloyd Center—not close! There might be one down Barbur Boulevard but I realized that’s one of those places that starts with the letter B. (Baja Fresh) There could be one down Hall Boulevard, my favorite street in Beaverton, but I don’t want to go there.

My instant CIMBY conversion led to disappointment. It’s unlikely a Chipotle will materialize in Multnomah Village. It would be nice for that one or two times a year I might get a craving for a fast and robust burrito that I help put together by calling out ingredients. If it all has to be a humorous diversion why did their guac have to be discussed as if it’s excellent? I would crave it more if it were accessible. Also, what about the joyous margarita parties lampooned in the post? While I abstain from alcohol, it sure would be fun for a few minutes to stumble upon raccaous frivolity in the Village once in a while.

The corporate creep from Starbucks left a bad taste in one of the commentator’s mouth. They’re awfully nice in that store. Try returning a drink that’s not made to your exact specifications and they’ll cheerfully make you another. Portland has bigger battles at the moment, I know, but I’d want that Chipotle to be placed in the retail section of the latest condominium. I suppose that’s asking a bit much.

I reached out to the guy who wrote the post but he didn’t get back to me. It was probably my mess of a Facebook messenger message. I don’t think I would have responded if I’d received a message like that. I would have assumed it was from a crackpot. It reminds me of how hapless and devoid of ideas I’ve become to write about a Facebook post in the first place. It had me laughing myself to tears—not easy to explain or reenact. Lately Facebook has offered a fair share of hate reads. After that I get distracted by a cat video before I start to wonder again if social media is the best use of my time.

For once I found pure entertainment. People who were too serious were met with oddball responses like that’s a “GIANT TINY IDEA.” Lot’s of commenters played a long but others were as serious as Margaret Dumont dealing with the Marx Brothers. One guy had no idea how his writing “no no no” could be construed as an Amy Winehouse lyric. Obscene references were tossed around for Taco Bell and Chipotle became the rather offensive Shitpotle. Descriptions for Chipotle being “extremely delicious” had me wondering why delicious is such a funny word. There was mention of someone preferring Qdoba branding himself a QIMBY. Another place I can’t pronounce. Where’s the U? A helpful response revealed that a new Chipotle would help a Negative Nancy become a Joyous Jane. Someone even managed to drop a Parrot Head reference. I started ascending to heaven. At least I found out there’s a Chipotle on Beaverton Hillsdale Highway—still too far for my taste. Somehow a sign-of-the-times accusation of racism creeped into the post—a misunderstanding that was cleared up when once again it was pointed out that the post was satire. Oh satire, how I’ve missed you! Most of the responders were having a good time. The pressure was off. No one was really having to go to a meeting, debate the merits of a real Chipotle in Multnomah Village or mobilize in anyway to make my newly found, yet soon to be unrealized dream a reality.

After reports of 50 plus straight days of violent, murderous, bloody rioting in the streets of Portland with Federal troops, the likes of which haven’t been seen in America since before the Revolutionary War, I was left in shock over my realization that I do not live within two miles of a Chipotle restaurant. I am underserved. The CIMBY lifestyle has me  pining for a bigger back yard. At the suggestion of making buttons and bumper stickers I thought this movement could get serious. While activities in downtown Portland boil over, a movement in the name of burrito liberty, guac justice and the pursuit of happiness from a full Chipotle meal extinguished itself in my corner of SW Portland. It was a grand idea gone awry or at the very least lost to the whims of satire.