Though I make it look easy, the supervision of the proper implementation of ethics at a newspaper (especially one that commits a myriad of disservices to its readers, i.e., The Stranger) is not an easy task. Since I took on this job, I have experienced a litany of crippling ailments, including but not limited to repetitive strain injury, psoriasis, whiplash, insomnia, sweaty palms, nausea, and post-traumatic stress disorder. At times, I have woken up in the morning paralyzed with pain, wondering how I could fight through another painful case of rickets to seize the day and remain the sole voice of sanity in the hobo-warming device that is The Stranger. But recently, my doctor prescribed a new drug called Improbustrel™. These little blue pills—handsomely marbled with yellow—are nothing short of miraculous; I feel like a man of 70 again, full of the vim and vigor that I felt during the shipwreck now casually referred to as "the Carter administration." Now, coxswain of my own destiny yet again, I feel strong enough to take The Stranger on with my full mental faculties. If only The Stranger could meet me on the same terms.

This week, JEN GRAVES regales us with a list of the Greatest Artworks Ever Produced in the City of Seattle. It is, of course, a celebration of everything wrong with Seattle: Welfare is celebrated, uncultured doodles are supreme, and the cult of personality is all-important. Where are the heroic statues of firefighters in Occidental Park? Where are the puckishly placed dance schematic footprints on the sidewalk of Capitol Hill? (I can tell you what's wrong with the latter in The Stranger's eyes: The footprints are male and female, a combination that is a sexual aberration in the eyes of Dan Savage. If the footprints were of a man dancing with a man, or, better yet, a woman and a goat, The Stranger would run a bleary photo of the dance steps on its cover every week for a year.)

In search of something a little more reasonable, I staggered back to the "news" section of the paper. This was, of course, a mistake. JONAH SPANGENTHAL-LEE blathers on about a case of possibly poached bivalves, which is clearly a mystery better suited for the Boxcar Children and not a self-anointed "journalist." DOMINIC HOLDEN whines about a church that is bravely, against the criticism of homosexuals and drug addicts, trying to improve our children's academic and emotional success. ERICA C. BARNETT jealously (but adorably) stamps her feet and huffs about city council members being sent to Dubai. Fleeing the news section, I bolted forward to the arts, wherein BRENDAN KILEY interviews a thespian who says she would rather perform her plays on an abandoned pile of rubble than in the confines of a theater. With a sigh, I cast the smudged pile of newsprint aside and summoned my personal assistant, who delivered a bottle of my beloved Improbustrel™. This is what I like to refer to as a "three-pill issue."