For some inexplicable reason, I am forced to write my column before
the election results have been announced. Believe me, I searched for
answers as to why, but of course none were satisfactory. For example:
Between hits on a marijuana pipe that was conspicuously (and
horrifically) shaped like a part of the male anatomy, Dan Savage
muttered something about “printing schedules” and then cast his rheumy
eyes out the window and across the street to the tight-panted young man
who was running frantically after a bus. Poppycock, obviously. If I am
“politically corrected” when I say this, so be it, but a man of
means—which Mr. Savage, for all his moral bankruptcy, purports to
be—should not allow the illegal immigrants who print his mockery
of a ladies’ home companion to dictate his schedule. One must remind
those in one’s employ that one can place an anonymous call to the INS
at any time one wishes. In these great United States of America, you
can determine a printing schedule of your own choosing, by gum!
Regardless, allow me to make a prediction: My darling Susan
Hutchison is by now confirmed as the new King County executive.
Congratulations to you, Susan! The executive has never before looked so
pert. And Joltin’ Joe Mallahan has crested into the mayor’s office on a
landslide of votes. I have not yet read the Stranger Election Control
Board’s account of these stunning victories—damned
Mexicans!—but I am sure the experience will deliver a delightful
bit of what the blasted Germans refer to as “schadenfreude,” which
translated literally means “the pleasure of crushing your foes beneath
your boot heel, especially if they are French.”
In nonelection news, BRENDAN KILEY bloats a theater review into
something unnecessarily long and boring. It appears to be about a play
glorifying the demise of the Seattle liberal’s house organ, the
Seattle Post-Intelligencer, which right-thinking Seattle
residents referred to as The Stranger in a suit and tie. I
recommend that right-thinking Seattle residents look at Mr. Kiley’s
extended diatribe as they would at a morbidly obese lady who has burst
her girdle—that is, avert the eyes.
Other pages of The Stranger do not reek quite so badly with
irrelevancy. Instead, they reek of a more fecal odor. For instance,
LAUREL MILLER opens her restaurant review, which is ostensibly supposed
to be appetizing, with an unrepeatable reference to something that
decent human beings should not be able to even imagine. I have seen
this descent into literary delinquency happen again and again at
The Stranger. It is disappointing to see Ms. Miller try so
hard to “fit in” with her “peer group.” I would urge her to seek better
peers instead of trying to find a place among flailing writers like the
silken-haired ERICA GRANDY, who this week interviews a collection of
goats and tries to pass it off as a music review. My dear woman, I know
you are starved for content, but I must warn you that going the route
of Charles Mudede’s animalistic urges is nothing short of madness.