Public Editor

I have just been informed by Mr. Savage and Mr. Keck that, due to
“publishing issues” that are, I’m fairly certain, fictional, I am
forced to complete my column before the election results are in. I’m
certain this paper is trying to keep me from gloating about the
Conservative Wave that will no doubt sweep the electorate on Tuesday.
They are deliberately withholding from me the no-doubt-teary election
wrap-up by the STRANGER ELECTION CONTROL BOARD about the massacre of
all things liberal.

I was, in fact, advised to keep the column apolitical this week.
“Write about ERICA C. BARNETT’s restaurant review,” Mr. Savage said.
“DAVID SCHMADER and PAUL CONSTANT have articles about nerdy comic-book
characters—you should write about that,” Mr. Keck suggested.
Obviously, I’m ignoring their drunken pleas—in this bold new
America, even fewer Seattleites will care about the scratchings of a
wannabe food reviewer who reportedly thinks curry makes a fine
midmorning snack or two stoned mental midgets who think Ziggy is
the apex of Western literature.

To hell with it: By the time you read this column, Dino Rossi will
be our governor. To Governor Rossi, I say: Godspeed to you, good sir,
and I would trust your steady hand on my tiller any day. There is no
man better to lead this state in important issues—of respect for
pro-life concerns, of reviving trickle-down economics, of quashing
these pitiful “mass transit” rumors that have been circulating the
dining room at Ruth’s Chris Steak House in the past few weeks. No one
of any consequence ever had any doubt that the best man for the job,
this time, was well and truly a man.

But there is a place for women in our government: at Number
One Observatory Circle, in the position of vice president. I have not
yet met our sultry and firm Number Two; on the occasion of the last
National Review cruise to Alaska, I had fallen ill with a rare
arctic strain of malaria and my doctor would not let me leave my
quarters for tea with Ms. Palin. I look forward to gallantly kissing
her hand—I’ve practiced on multiple occasions with my cleaning
lady, Roberta—and greeting her as Madame VP.

And John McCain. I cannot overstate the love and respect I feel for
this man, this war hero, this magnificent, majestic stud horse of a
public servant who was nearly taken political prisoner in my stead
during that awful, wrongheaded Keating Five debacle back in the ’80s. I
welcome you, Mr. President—you’ll be on Mount Rushmore soon
enough.

No doubt half of the staff of The Stranger has overdosed on
inhalants and methamphetamines by the time you read this, out of sheer
sorrow that their candidate is returning to his terroristic Chicago
roots. These children have probably realized by now that there is no
room for their little STD-ridden weekly reader in John McCain’s
America. I feel no pity for them. I feel only joy at the conquest of
their values by the better candidates and the will of the American
people.

publiceditor@thestranger.com