Somewhere far back in the bodily-fluid-stained annals of
Stranger history, this pitiful excuse for a tabloid knew its
place. It was a weekly reader for homosexuals and other freaks of
nature, and it provided information about how to avoid hemorrhoids,
which shades of mascara go with which variety of chaps, and other
useful tips for people who violate God’s sacred covenant with all
decent humanity. Granted, it was still an abomination, but it was a
shoddily photocopied abomination intended solely for other
abominations. Decent people were never ensnared in The
Stranger‘s sticky web of shame.

But something happened. I suspect that overpermissive liberal elite
scum Tom Brokaw is somehow to blame for the slackening of people’s
ability to discern news from filth. (I understand that a recent survey
revealed that four out of every five Americans were unable to discern
the difference between a marital aid and an egg beater—damn you,
Brokaw!) But here is my point: For some reason, The Stranger is now considered a reliable source for citizens who are trying to
determine for whom they should vote.

And this issue is thick with Liberal Pansy Brainwashing of the worst
kind. We begin with ELI SANDERS’s ridiculous screed about why Dow
Constantine is losing to my good friend Susan Hutchison. The answers,
Mr. Sanders, are far too obvious for your second-rate,
convolution-loving mind to grasp: Susan is one of the great thinkers of
our time, and Mr. Constantine is a funny-looking little pencil-necked
geek. Further, I hope Susan will address Mr. Constantine’s possible
status as an illegal Greek
immigrant on her way to easy victory.
Give it up, Mr. Sanders. The Seattle voter has had far too much of your
merry band of abortionists and stem-cell worshippers, and your precious
Mr. Constantine will be the first to fall before the Great Red
Tide.

But the sad electoral prancing continues: DOMINIC HOLDEN attempts an
intellectual attack on my good friend Tommy Carr. Everyone knows that
Holden assaulting someone with his brain is akin to a paraplegic
toddler tackling a teddy bear with a butter knife. It is obvious that
Mr. Holden is simply jockeying for a public-relations position in some
mythical Holmes administration, which will luckily never come to
pass.

And then BRENDAN KILEY, who I am coming to believe more and more
with every week is just a pseudonym for Megan Seling (who is
pathologically unable to stop her embarrassing panting over men she
finds “dreamy”)—this “Mr. Kiley” pens a love letter to Mike
McGinn that I would say must be read to be believed. Unfortunately,
this horny ode to the man who will handily lose to Joltin’ Joe Mallahan
on November 3 is so hormonally driven to irrationality that it cannot
physically be read by people with intelligence and reason on their side
(i.e., men and decent Christian women).

Finally, because this paper originally made its name by promoting
everything that is wrong-headed about Seattle’s arts community, I have
this to say about DAN
SAVAGE’s interview with a musical-theater
personality: gayer than Oscar Wilde at a primary school.