It may surprise some of you that I admire the manly art of pugilism. Some believe my genteel bearing and cultured prose bespeak a man who does not enjoy fisticuffs; they could not be more wrong. However, my hobby has recently led me astray. I had wagered the usual sum—let's just say that it is at least 10 times the average Stranger staffer's yearly salary, so we are coasting in the low four figures—on the great Spaniard Kiko Martinez in his rematch against Leicester garbageman-cum-EBU-super-bantamweight-titleholder Rendall Munroe. The damnably lucky Munroe somehow got the edge on Martinez in a unanimous judges' decision. The whole improbable scenario smacks, to be blunt, of foul play.

Since Martinez's shameful and spurious defeat, I've been receiving threatening notes from a Portuguese loan shark who took my prematch advice and bet a sizable investment on Martinez. Those threats are causing me considerable stress, particularly a recent angry epistle suggesting that several of my favorite appendages belong, in fact, to him. So it was with a heavy heart that I approached this week's issue of The Stranger. The reading experience did nothing to brighten my mood.

In fact, my misery was heightened tenfold on witnessing the return of a plague I had happily considered cured once and for all. A disgraced former "film editor" for this rag, one who never met a pretentious statement with which he did not want to make passionate love, has written an egotistical monologue about his experience lobbying Congress (yes, the real Congress, in Washington, D.C.). Apparently, SEAN NELSON wants more money for himself and his caterwauling cronies, and is not afraid to beg for government assistance. Clearly, if the Obama administration is allowing buskers to openly demand that the government bail them out, we have shattered rock bottom and plunged to a brave new depth of hell.

Casting our eyes away from this shameful welfare queenery, we observe that BETHANY JEAN CLEMENT has stumbled away from her desk and staggered a record-breaking 50 yards to review Oddfellows, a bar with a clear view of The Stranger's offices. Perhaps next week Ms. Clement will review the hot-dog cart that occasionally shows up around the corner.

Speaking of the horrors of Pine Street, DOMINIC HOLDEN's sordid screed about a homosexual dance club appears to have placed him just slightly ahead of Ms. Clement in the category of Pulitzer Dreams Not Likely to Be Fulfilled. Then PAUL CONSTANT wastes what seem to be hundreds of column inches serenading a blasphemous dime-store novelist of no importance, and ERIC GRANDY scribbles a paean to a transsexual musician.

I fell asleep there and awoke 10 minutes past my deadline, so I shall end now and take up other more pressing matters—namely, a new death threat from my Portuguese loan shark. I must say, he writes better than anyone at The Stranger.