I simply cannot take it anymore. Every so often, for some reason known only to his fickle, deviant mind, ELI SANDERS composes a bloated piece of insipid writing that details a horrendous crime of some sort, usually involving brutal violence against women (a fact that we shall leave to trained psychoanalytic professionals). Of course, Mr. Sanders sheds the requisite number of crocodile tears to appear genuinely moved by the loss of an innocent life. Then, like an inebriated driver, he incoherently veers from the melodramatic to the lurid in his account. One would think this would be enough. One would be incorrect.

In this issue, like any self-respecting vulture is known to do, Mr. Sanders circles back over the scene of one of these crimes several months later to pen a hand-wringing critique of the system—not the criminal who committed the crime, but society as a whole—for allowing such a monster to run free. Typical! His voyeurism is only exceeded by his liberal knee-jerking—so violent, no doubt, it overshadows his delirium tremens at times.

No more, I say: I will not accept my share of the blame for an allegedly murderous psychopath, because, no matter what Mr. Sanders believes, there is no blame for me to shoulder. Society did not slaughter that woman in her bed, and Mr. Sanders's eagerness to point a damning finger anywhere but at the accused makes my skin crawl. Does he entertain some kind of deviant thrill when he sympathizes with the malignant tumors festering among us? I do not know, and I do not care to guess. As it is, I can barely hold down my lunch.

Then I turn to DAVID SCHMADER's barely literate review of a "vegan" restaurant that somehow prides itself on manufacturing a meal entirely out of roots and tree bark, and I must immediately have my valet tell the cook to prepare me a steak au poivre as antidote. Nobody cares about your hippie cuisine, Mr. Schmader, but hippies. And everybody knows that hippies don't have any money, which could explain why more advertisers flee the The Stranger with every passing issue. One week soon, I expect my preview copy to consist of a single page, composed of a half-size version of DAN SAVAGE's moronic genital-health column surrounded by a few meager advertisements for low-class ladies of the night.

Elsewhere in the "Chow" section, BETHANY JEAN CLEMENT exercises her tiny little bit of institutional authority to embezzle alcoholic beverages out of yet another drinking establishment in exchange for her dubious attentions. One day soon, these demands of gratis inebriants in exchange for a positive review will fall on deaf ears. Bar owners of Seattle: You are feeding the egos of powerless, self-important boobs. Just because Ms. Clement arrogantly believes her writing belongs in the New Yorker (a publication that, as I understand it, is not in the practice of employing delusional half-wits) does not mean it is of that caliber; in fact, I would not find it suitable for a collection of knock-knock jokes. That would require both wit and logic, which are two gifts with which Ms. Clement remains unendowed.