Over the years, The Stranger has set a very high bar for taking false premises and running with them. There was the idea that the people of Seattle wanted a monorail. That bit of falsity provided the entirety of the paper's "news" content for approximately three years. Other false premises linger still: the notion that Charles Mudede is an authority on anything except the price of boxed wine, the idea that the foul-mouthed Dan Savage has a shred of advice worth following in or out of the boudoir, and, of course, the contention that the citizenry awaits with bated breath the "Interrogations" with low-life instrument-abusers featured in the so-called music section. But this week's issue raises the bar even higher.
The premise: that the drooling masses who make up this paper's readership will recognize a voter registration form if the paper is literally wrapped in one and, further, that they will have the capacity to fill out said voter registration form. I know Mr. Keck means well with this project, but I am going to have to inform him, during our next steam bath, about a recent Stranger focus group I conducted. It was at a wretched, unspeakable place called The Eagle, to which Mr. Savage referred me when I inquired where his audience congregates. Of the 19 men I quizzed, only one passed the basic literacy test I providedâthe reading aloud of one page of Adam Smith's remarkable treatise The Wealth of Nations. Sixteen of the other gentlemenâand I use the term looselyârefused to take the test, deploying the gutter language of the illiterate. Two others kept insisting that I visit the lavatory with them, until finally I fled the premises. All of which scientifically proves (are you taking notes, Mr. Golob?) that the voter registration form is highly unlikely to find an audience capable of comprehending, much less utilizing, it.
Speaking of comprehension problems, The Stranger has apparently decided it would be a good idea to publish restaurant reviews written by its group of rabid online fanatics, which recent government wiretapping has concluded is one lone homosexual man who dwells in his parents' basement and has nothing better to do than write reviews under a variety of pseudonyms. Unsurprisingly, most of the soi-disant reviews are devoted to bar fights, "hot girls," and whipped cream.
Elsewhere, SEAN NELSON makes a disastrous return to the film section he destroyed in the early aught-aughts, and ERICA C. BARNETT attempts to defame my good friend Dino Rossi. Ms. Barnett, who is clearly a hyperliberal shill for "Casino Chris," will sorely regret writing this feature when Governor Rossi is sworn in next year and the Great State of Washington begins its inevitable glorious ascent to conservatism. That will be a happy day indeed at the Steen manse. I may even treat myself to a sip or two of champagne to celebrate.
