For years, the lily-white drug addicts who churn out The Stranger week after week have prided themselves on the fact that they have a black friend, the wine-besotted court jester and Natalie Merchant enthusiast named Charles Mudede. But it appears that Mr. Mudede, the African memoirist in residence, has reached the end of his usefulness, and the hunt for a new token is on. (Perhaps his stultifying verbosity has finally made one foe too many?) My evidence: This week, we are "treated" to a too-long essay written by someone exotically named AHAMEFULE J. OLUO and whimsically entitled "My Father Is an African Immigrant and My Mother Is a White Girl from Kansas and I Am Not the President of the United States." A few thoughts: One, the editors of this newspaper are so unfailingly infatuated with Barack Obama that they will insert references to him into anything, no matter the context, even if, as in the current instance, a piece doesn't mention the president even once; two, Mr. Oluo's relationship with his father is of no consequence to anyone who is not Mr. Oluo; and, three, Mr. Mudede should watch his back, as the staff is evidently preparing to give him the Julius Caesar treatment.

Elsewhere...

CITY: Perhaps sensing an institutional spring-cleaning afoot, other staff tokens are scrambling for relevancy this week. Resident Latina lesbian CIENNA MADRID interviews a female pugilist, star of a fringe sporting event that no one takes seriously.

VISUAL ART: Staff critic JEN GRAVES titles a visual art review "Perversion and Chicanery," no doubt in hopes of tricking perverts and Chicanos into reading it. Instead, it is an endless string of sentences about nothing at all—par for the course for Miss Graves.

THEATER: Couldn't find it.

BOOKS: Couldn't bear it.

CHOW: MEGAN SELING discovers yet more ways to ingest sugar. At the rate her "restaurant reviews," also known as "cries for help," have been coming, I fully expect Miss Seling to be dead of complications from diabetes before Guy Fawkes Day.

MUSIC: Staff writer DAVE SEGAL scribbles about something called "synth-music." In next week's issue, I plan on unveiling my theory that Mr. Segal has been making up genres of music every week for the last three years, simply out of boredom.

FILM: The staff moron, LINDY WEST, interviews—forgive me, Mother—a "fart" in her column, finally playing the lowest-common-denominator card she has been holding close to her chest for the last two years and crossing her fingers that this will endear her to the addle-brained imbeciles who "read" The Stranger. Miss West has hit bottom, and there is surely nowhere else for her to go. Bring on the next doddering simpleton to replace this one, I say.

SPORTS BLOTTER: It's time to hire a new staff sports hack, as well.