Look. I earned a Presidential Physical Fitness Award in elementary school, too, signed by Hoover himself. So I can appreciate that a few Stranger writers take a certain pride in being the "athletes" of the listless, doughy bunch. But let's be honest: Letting gravity carry one down from the summit of Capitol Hill on some death-trap fixed-gear bicycle, slaloming between vehicles whilst also yelling through a megaphone about the perniciousness of car commuters, and then boarding a Metro bus at the base of the hill in order to get back up (and using said Metro bus ride as an opportunity to collect material for a mean-spirited "Weblog" missive castigating Metro bus riders and operators) is not exactly an Olympic sport.

And yet ERICA C. BARNETT seems to believe it is just that. Fine. Let her continue to earn her gold medals in sophistry and self-delusion. It helps fill the letters page, if nothing else. But let her not, as she does in this week's news section, try to position herself as some sort of voice of the oppressed biking masses. Ms. Barnett's column (which begins with the outrageous assertion "As an occasional driver, I know what it's like"—words no doubt typed while driving with an expired license, no insurance, and a lien on three out of four of her tires) is a new nonsensical low, even for her. The occasion? An attack by a horde of angry bike terrorists, acting under the innocent-sounding name "Critical Mass," on a law-abiding Seattle driver. Ms. Barnett's take? Bikers are good, cars are bad, and she's the real victim in this tragedy.

As if these solipsistic stutterings were not bad enough, next door we find JONAH SPANGENTHAL-LEE performing what I'm told is a "news analysis" of the same unfortunate event. This, of course, means that a Stranger writer is once again hilariously attempting to point out flaws in news coverage provided by more reputable publications. I will never understand what childhood experiences produce this kind of unwarranted arrogance in an implicitly failed writer—though no doubt some sort of Montessori preschool is partly to blame—but I will always consider it my duty to steer the uninitiated away from such exercises in self-humiliation. Three words: Avert your eyes.

The final farce in this week's paper is the SHERMAN ALEXIE account of the 61 things he learned while testifying at the Sonics trial. Aside from providing Mr. Alexie with another opportunity to curse in print and slander my good friend Clay Bennett (whose heft results from a glandular disorder, Mr. Alexie, you heartless bastard), I can see no point to this exercise. Unless the point, as always, is for Mr. Alexie to once again insert the phrase "my recent National Book Award" into his copy, and for the preening editors here to continue telling themselves that this makes them special-by-proxy. Which, I repeat, it does not. recommended