This week, DOMINIC HOLDEN finally gets around to asking a question for which there has always been a direct and obvious answer. His belated inquiry: "Why do you hate me?" Mr. Holden, my records indicate that I (and, I presume, all right-minded readers) have hated you ever since you started working at this filthy floor mop a few months ago. And it is not just because you hold forth on subjects the very existence of which you are barely qualified to know about—that is, sadly, commonplace here—but also because you seem so pleased at the product of your overly strenuous exertions when, in fact, the only thing you have produced is a fast-growing stain upon this publication's journalistic reputation. (A reputation that, to be quite honest, I had thought could not bear further bespoiling without finding itself in violation of certain immutable laws of physics and good hygiene.) That, Mr. Holden—that is why I hate you. In brief. Also, the buggery doesn't help.

As for you, JONAH SPANGENTHAL-LEE, I see that you have once again missed the point of an important public tragedy by such a wide distance that I could drive my entire fleet of antique Land Rovers (all of the 1948 vintage, mind you, from back when the British built them properly, not those new bastardized knockoffs snapped together by some Hindu named Tata) side by side through the gap between your gross misapprehension and the bedrock truth of the matter. This bedrock truth, Mr. Lee, is that this effort by my good friends at the Seattle Police Department to turn drug dealers into Boy Scouts by blackmailing them with prosecutable videocassette evidence of their drug-related misdeeds was always doomed to failure. Have I not been attempting to blackmail you, Mr. Lee—along with the incorrigible Mr. Savage and the foul-mouthed Ms. West and the fair-haired Ms. Grandy—with certain videocassette tapes that I have had in my safe since the burlap and bong-water incident? Has that changed the behavior of any one of you in the slightest? No. Further, I have it on good information that at least seven Stranger staffers were presented by Seattle police with prosecutable evidence of drug dealing as part of this misguided "rehabilitation" effort, with, of course, absolutely no effect on their criminal tendencies. As I have always said, the only solution is this: Lock them up, throw away the key, sell all the seized drugs back to the Mexicans, and use the proceeds to lower my taxes.

In further blindness to the obvious, we have JEN GRAVES prattling on about the meaning of the new dormitories—yes, that's right, the new dormitories—at Cornish College of the Arts (an educational establishment that teaches nothing of value to people of no social utility). The obvious: We do not care.

Finally, I will say two things about the always-damnable books section. One: There is no way that a communist apparatchik like CHARLES MUDEDE can convince me that our fascist in chief does not have Hitler-like tendencies, especially when Mr. Mudede uses some snotty Frenchman named Foucault to accomplish his fool's errand. Second: PAUL CONSTANT purring about Gay Talese is far, far too gay.

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