February 6, 2003 · VOL. 12, NO. 21

Due to the painfully dull nature of this week's issue, I shall use my allotted space not to critique Vol. 12, No. 21, but instead to offer some analysis of just why The Stranger has always been--and continues to be--a rigorously doltish enterprise. To wit: "Creative individuals" (translation: spoiled liberals) live their lives being coddled to varying degrees, able to sidestep responsibility on a near-continuous basis. I have (I think humorously) labeled such individuals "bedwetters," and it is these same bedwetters that The Stranger employs. A simple gander through the paper's editorial department--from the ever-whining Josh Feit to the ever-pretentious and foppish Sean Nelson--offers ample proof to back this claim, as each and every one of The Stranger's "writers" (with the exception of David Schmader--the lone shining star) lives a life of apparent privilege. Said privilege is not financial, however, but the privilege of irresponsibility. The Stranger's bedwetters are so entrenched under the umbrella of free expression that they believe they are able to write and publish exactly what they wish, with little or no regard to the feelings and/or beliefs of others. It is an immature existence that, with the addition of excessive alcohol and drug consumption, creates a direct link to the outrageous, ignorant tripe The Stranger publishes weekly. In short, The Stranger's editorial department is little more than a klatch of drug-addled children--children who often believe they are funny and clever, but rarely, in fact, are. Put another, slightly crude way: The Stranger consists of a bunch of idiots who know how to type, and perhaps one day the city of Seattle will awaken to this realization and pick up the paper no more.