The holidays are upon us again, and even as I type this, the Steen family is assembling at the compound in Sequim for our annual celebration of all things yule-related. My maid has nearly completed polishing the 37 dimes—one for each of my nieces, nephews, and domestic support staff (of course, I had to give Consuela a stern lecture before she began about not polishing her own coin any brighter than anyone else's)—and I have stockpiled several casks of brandy in the trunk of the Aston Martin for surreptitious expeditions behind the barn when the discussion turns to political matters. Amid all this bliss I have only just now remembered that there is such a newspaper as The Stranger and that I am supposed to comment on it weekly for my column. A few precious moments without hacks and hate speech weighing on my mind—perhaps this one blessed slip of the memory was God's gift to me.

Surely, fewer people are reading The Stranger this week than usual; all the young communist radicals in its "target audience" are undoubtedly at home in California on Christmas break, whining about how Mommy and Daddy chose the wrong color "Walkman" with which to stuff their Christmas stockings. This must be why this week's issue is especially pointless. Case in point: JAKE BLUMGART leads the walk of shame with an anticapitalist screed about how successful retailers should be banned from Seattle so that lazy truck drivers won't have to work anymore. Fear not, Mr. Blumgart; I expect Mayor McGinn to soon drive every lucrative business from the greater Seattle area. Problem solved. Elsewhere, BRENDAN KILEY continues to "uncover" evil conspiracies against the "little guy"—this time, he expects the reader to become enraged that some adolescents can't dress up like their favorite oversexualized rock and roll singer. Mr. Kiley, nobody cares.

The "feature" story, as in the article that Messrs Savage and Frizzelle believe will inspire people to pick The Stranger from off the faces of sleeping hobos and bring it home to read, is a memoir (French for "boring, self-involved dreck") by MEGAN SELING about how she is addicted to sugar. This piece, of course, is part two in a series begun by the walking lard repository known as Paul Constant earlier this year. Series title: "Stranger Writers Eat Too Much Food." Ms. Seling, everyone enjoys a Zagnut bar now and again, but the solution to your "problem" is as follows: Put down the fork, push away from the table, and stop trying to blame your problems on "addiction," which is merely shorthand for "a lack of self-control."

As a corollary to Ms. Seling's uninspired overconfessing, DAVID SCHMADER scribbles about a convenience store in the section of the paper normally reserved for restaurant reviews, bringing a mockery of a section to a shameful new low. And now I must retreat again to my Sequim compound to drink brandy until I forget that this mediocre issue of an always-mediocre publication ever crossed my line of sight and to hope for The Stranger's collapse and economic ruin in the new year ahead, as is my holiday tradition.