Long before there was cuneiform or hieroglyphics, and many thousands
of years before the written word allowed Christ our Savior to brighten
the minds of knuckle-draggers (and tighten the knees of unchaste women)
everywhere, there were pictograms. This, my friends, was man at his
most primitive. Picking up charred embers, scratching out the image of
a bison on a cave wall, calling it communication, and then grunting and
collapsing, exhausted from all that mental exertion, on a
saber-toothed-tiger pelt. Disgusting.
Most of us have moved far beyond this stage of development (I am
composing this, for example, on the miracle that is the IBM Selectric),
but over at The Stranger offices, time moves in reverse:
Adults age into infants (progressing from public tantrums into
desperate arm-flapping selfishness and then, finally, into an ability
to focus only on the production of bodily fluids), while human
achievement returns to levels not seen since the state of nature was an
actual thing (and not just part of that spooky bedtime story by Mr.
Hobbes that I like to read to my grandkids this time of year).
Thus we arrive at the two-page pictogram in the current issue,
wherein the incompetent staff of this laughable publication finally
abandons all pretensions to literacy and turns instead to what can only
be called cave scratchings on paper. It is a Neanderthal thing to
behold, both in its composition and in its message. Being an educated
man of letters, I cannot be certain what exactly is being communicated,
but it seems to be something about angry volcanoes demanding ritual
animal sacrifice unless the people of Seattle vote a straight communist
ticket in the upcoming election.
I used to dismiss The Stranger‘s attempts at electoral
meddling, but now that the paper’s “writers” have decided to meet their
“readers” on a communicative plane that does not require an
understanding of the alphabet, I admit I am somewhat worried. I hereby
urge all literate people who have accidentally picked up these pages to
vote the Steen ticket on November 3: Hutchison, Mallahan, Eyman, and no
on homosexuals in wedding dresses.
Elsewhere, we see DAN SAVAGE trying to write a “think
piece”—despite the inherent contradictions involved—about
the costumes worn on All Hallows’ Eve. Being an educated man of
letters, I cannot be certain what exactly is being communicated, but it
seems to be something about heterosexuals behaving, for one night of
the year, in a manner that is just as depraved as that of homosexuals
during one of their annual parades. I find this a highly dubious line
of argument. I have picketed many a pagan Hallows’ Eve festival, and
accidentally wandered into a few homosexual enthusiasm marches (to my
lasting dismay), and I can tell you that—however strident my
objections to organized ghoul worship—never on All Hallows’ Eve
have I seen, for example, a young man performing unmentionable acts
upon the genitals of his “daddy.” There is, Mr. Savage, simply no
comparison—and if you think you might succeed in elevating your
civic status by aligning yourself with packs of sticky-fingered child
beggars, you are woefully misguided. Aim lower.