When I learned through the usual back channels (thank you,
D.S.—your stealth, quiet discretion, and indeterminate initials
will, as always, be rewarded via courier) that this week’s issue was to
contain something called the “Snowball’s-Chance-in-Hell-O-Meter,” I
naturally assumed it would be yet another exercise in
omphaloskepticism. Go ahead, dear reader, look it up in one of the
Googles. If that searchable combustion engine has any horsepower, it
will take you straight to the archival materials of this self-obsessed
rag, whose brand of narcissistic storytelling defines the word rather
nicely. In any case, imagine my surprise when I was delivered an
advance draft (again, my thanks to D.S.) that was not engaged in
rating, by some childish metric, the chances that Mr. Mudede would show
up to work sober this week, the odds that Mr. Spangenthal-Lee would
ever take off his pretend policeman’s badge, or the likelihood that Mr.
Kiley would firm up his wrists. Instead, this charticle attempts to be
of assistance to the citizens of this fair city by rating the chances
of various contenders in the race for municipal executive.
I say “attempts,” for it is written by DOMINIC HOLDEN, who appears
to have been elevated far above his level of competence since the
blessed departure of Erica C. Barnett (for what sounds like a
cracking-fun quarterly publication that covers the ins and outs of the
soft-drink industry). In his regrettable attempt at political analysis,
Mr. Holden not only denigrates the chances of Jan Drago—a highly
effective public servant and, even more impressive, the only distaff
competitor ever to win the annual triathlon I host at the estate in
Sequim (Scotch, croquet, and skeet, if you must know, but do not set
about practicing: You’re not invited)—he also plagiarizes that
“blah blah blah” line from one of my recent columns. Son, when you are
stealing from A. Birch Steen to try to impress the kids, it is
obviously far past time to take early retirement.
Meanwhile, in other travesties of journalism, MEGAN SELING uses a
computer to discover the existence of a neighborhood called “West
Seattle.” Of course, because Ms. Seling, like every other faux
journalist at this catalog of shame, does not earn enough money to own
even the most run-down of jalopies (in fact, due to her ferocious and
unchecked drug habits, Ms. Seling probably lacks the funds to
even—shudder—hire a taxicab), she has no method by
which to actually get to West Seattle. This is probably for the best:
Ms. Seling and her vulgar rock-and-roll-loving ilk would only sully the
last great neighborhood in our fair city—the Cradle of Seattle,
where our founding fathers commenced the civilization of the entire
region.
After scouring the depths of Ms. Seling’s filthy imagination and
finding nothing of value there, we return to the so-called chow
section, where Mr. Holden makes an unwelcome reappearance to discuss
vans from which decent citizens are expected to purchase meats at
discount prices. I can assure you that my good friend Ms. Drago, when
she becomes mayor, will put a stop to this unsavory practice
immediately.