And now it's time for an anti-climatic anecdote.

A few Friday nights back I was sitting at the Taco Bell drive-thru on West Burnside. It was around 1 AM and the taxi ahead of me had just pulled up to the speaker box. In the rearview mirror I could see the cabbie rubbing his temples and looking like he was enduring the worst migraine in the history of migraines. Piled inside with him were four identical blondes, each drunk and dressed to the nines- all giggling and clapping their hands. While this scenario may have once been a dream fare, in reality it was proving to be an endless nightmare.

Then one of them popped out of the cab. Stumbling atop high heels, she wandered over to the front door and started banging, howling for someone to let her inside. The rest of blondes looked on, ignoring the box's pleas for their order and an explanation that main restaurant closed at 10, no exceptions.

POTTY GIRL (still undaunted): "Let me in! I have to go pee! Baaaaaaaaaaaaaaad! *hiccup*"

After a few minutes of this one of her friends came up with a solution.

OTHER BLONDE: "Just go behind the dumpster."

A line of vehicles was growing, leading out the parking lot and down Burnside. As over a dozen sets of eyes watched this scene unfold, she headed over to the rusty dumpster and considered her options.

POTTY GIRL: "I can't go here! All these people are watching me!"

OTHER BLONDE: "Then get back in. You can go to bathroom later.

POTTY GIRL: "But I have to go noooooooooooooooooow!"

After wandering around the parking lot in search for a hidden toilet, she headed for the garage at Fred Meyer. Meanwhile, the group in a Jeep Cherokee behind me was getting seriously irked. Inside were four brunettes, probably returning home after a stint at Dixie's Tavern, all dressed in wife beaters and matching brimmed hats.

Sure, it all sounds like a beer commercial gone awry but I swear I'm not making this up.

One of the brunettes jumped out of the jeep, stomped past my car and stood with her arms folded, evidentially hoping her rough and tough cowgirl stance would get things moving. It didn't work. Another one joined her. Still nothing. By this time the line was no doubt stretching all the way down to Powell's Bookstore.

Not eager to engage in a Taco Bell brawl, the blondes vainly yelled for their friend to return but she had disappeared into the depths of the parking garage. At any second the cowgirls were going to unleash a wave of pure estrogen fury on the cab. Their colleagues were fumbling around in the jeep, possibly looking for a tire iron or a Club to bust some peroxide-soaked heads. The cabbie was leaning against the driver's side window, his eyes buried in a furry hand. He may have been crying. While he was sure to get a $80 fare out of this, there was no way these harpies was going to tip him, let alone loan him two extra strength Tylenol.

And then...

...the blonde returned from the parking garage, looking refreshed. Satisfied but still seriously pissed the cowgirls called off their attack. After watching the taxi's contents struggle to order to the tune of car horns, the cabbie finally shifted into "drive."

Estimated time of the delay: 10 minutes, probably longer.

As I pulled up to the window the taco jockey looked jaded and bored. "Well, that was interesting," he said, handing me a Grilled Stuft Burrito. This sort of thing must happen 10 times a night down there.