My annual month of employment is about to come to a close, and I augur some bittersweet emotions about the whole importune occasion. On the one hand, the fully enclosed nature of the Easter Bunny suit means that excessive hygienic dutifulness is not entirely abrogated upon me; that is, to elucidate: I can simply shuttle myself back and forth from my makeshift bed hidden in the back stockroom of the Spencer Gifts directly to the ready room and don my bunny head and furry apparel without an unnecessary stop for ablutions along the way. The tang of gin, the whiff of sweat, the flume of indigestion: All those maliforous odors remain tightly enclosed within the pastel pelt, and all of Northern Seattle's good Christian children who perch momentarily upon my faux-fur lap for the nonce as my assistants snap a digital photograph are none the wiser.
But these halcyon days of four weekly fat paychecks and rewarding daily employment are nearly behind me. Ordinarily, I would hop a boxcar and ride south until next spring dawns, but I grow old. My hair is gray and thinning, my alimentary canal has transmogrified into a dry leather sack, and the nubile young sales ladies down at the liquor store now confer upon me a respectful "sir" as they direct the local constabulatory to administer me violently from their shops for liberating their wares from their shelves without payment.
In short, the time for lollygagging is past, and this old vagabond needs to muster a new gig. And so what better allocation than that of a humble scribe? It is a matter of well-repute that I am an autodidact nonpareil, and wordsmithery has always run deep in my veins like printer's ink. And so I impugn myself upon The Stranger to allow me this opportunity to augur my wit and inkpen in their service as public editor, in the hopes that steady employment—and thusly a thatched roof, a picketed fence, and a mayhaps a dog that does not eagerly abandon yours truly for a well-stocked Dumpster—will be mine.
I notice that two of the "feature" yarns in this newspaper are written by the fairer sex! Here we have CIENNA MADRID, indignified for some reason about local hospitals, and there we have KARY WAYSON penning a ballad about the Hill of Queen Anne. I have not read either piece—in several minutes, it will be time for a punishing 12-hour shift, and time is leaking from my time-slough—but they certainly appear informational.
It must be ladies' night in this publication: MEGAN SELING composes an ode about "Mudhoney," and ANNA MINARD details the strife suffered by a soccer team for the limpen-wristed. With such a corral of comely women in The Stranger's employ, I certainly hope that the powers that be have adjudicated that I earned the public editor position. Ladies, the door of my new corner office will be available for comfort-giving at any moment; I am an expert in providing professional-level lap-sitting instructions.