Some people in this world seek riches, some seek sex, and some seek fame. Some people seek out the dumpiest fucking bar they could possibly find in hopes of spending their 30th birthday there. Once you turn 30 you’re old and you might as well deliberately sabotage your life, and such is the predicament I found myself last month. But oh where can one find such treasures of dumpy existence you ask? Bethel Island of course. As you drive further and further into decomposition and decay, questioning your willingness to ironically mingle with people that probably rape shit and steal shopping carts, not only is there TUGS, which is definitely worthy of a SUMMONING visit all by itself:
But there is also THE RUSTY PORTHOLE:
I should also mention that you can drive a boat here if you want. That’s some next level white trash shit that most wife beaters can only dream of.
I went on my voyage to dumpsterville when it was pouring rain to further add to my experience of utter destitution, although to be fair this place seems pretty bucolic when it’s nice outside. Inside was a mixture of kitsch and semi-racist people getting fucked up all day. So let’s spit on 2 or 3 (if you are feeling generous) fingers and enter the Rusty Porthole:
They had a lot of weird decorations on the walls, including a TV that intermittently displayed the most primitive graphic designs to advertise Rusty Porthole events.
The only thing worse than the graphics is my ability to capture them
Guy Fieri is God here
The waitress came over to talk to us. She was quite a piece of work. She promptly told us that she had been up until the wee hours in the morning getting fucked up and how hung over she was and how she had accidentally paid her bar tab twice and how the boss is a dick cuz he won’t admit that she had paid it twice and how he’s keeping the money blah blah blah blah. I felt like I was sitting at a bus stop or something and some crazy bitch came up to me to ask for a quarter, except this was a restaurant/bar. I almost felt like this was some sort of cosmic intervention of my drinking, warning me of the potential life I could have if I continue to drink all the time, but I ordered a cocktail anyways:
First I ordered the Bloody Maria:
Shit was really good actually. There was some vegetables sticking out but I ate them first.
Then I was feeling frisky so I ordered the Porthole Nut.
LOOSE PORTHOLE NUT
The waitress yelled over her shoulder to the bartender “gimmie a Porthole Nut, for a man”. Then the bartender replied “hey, you can’t use that kinda language in here” and then laughed a lot. Then she put the drink in front of me, which apparently is a shooter, which I fucking hate by the way, and then she told me I’ve gotta slam it. I put the drink back into my throat and the waitress yelled in my ear to ask if I “busted a nut” and then laughed maniacally. I politely told her that my nut is still fully intact. At this point I was worried that if I tried to order some food I’d have to hear a shitty child support story or something, but I dared look at the food menu anyways:
You apparently can order a steak on a french roll here, but I ended up ordering the ‘Rajun Cajun Sandwich’, which due to my shitty photography skills was partly cropped in my photo. It came with a big ass gutted pepper inside:
The sandwich was pretty far from rajun. They should change the name of the sandwich from Rajun Cajun to Middle Aged Sad White Guy From The South Sandwich. Even the description they put of the sandwich is kind of sad. Mild chili? That is not very rajing. Yet despite all of my personal raj, I was still just a rat in a caj, so I had to eat the sandwich. My plate was empty and the waitress came by and said “Well you weren’t FUCKING HUNGRY were you?!” and then walked away. Actually, I just need some calories to fill my body up regardless of their flavor content. I hate how the staff always thinks their food is the shit just cuz you ate it all. It’s like, I paid for this shit. I would be throwing my money away if I didn’t eat it. Sometimes if I find candy that is still on the wrapper on the street I eat it. That doesn’t mean I want to eat that when I go out to a restaurant.
I should also mention that the fries, or I suppose the F.F. if I’m to use Rusty Porthole terminology, were pretty whatever. These are about as good as the time I first discovered that the frozen bags of fries you buy at the store come out a lot better if you put them in the oven instead of the microwave. Plus, this wasn’t even the dumpiest bar that I’ve ever been to. That honor belongs to the Glen Avon Pub (RIP):
But don’t take my word for it, let’s take a look at a nice little Google Review: