I t has recently come to my attention that The Stranger has discontinued its letters column. This is obviously because nobody is writing letters in support of The Stranger's alarming interests. Well, one of my secretaries—the smallest one, who I have come to believe suffers from dwarfism—has delivered unto me this missive from a reader named John C. that is in reference to last issue's filthy celebration of sodomy. It deserves to be read in its entirety by the dwindling readership of this moldering rag:

Dear Stranger,

Your recent issue is the most pathetic, desperate cry for readers yet. After moving here two years ago from Raleigh, NC, I expected to find an independent newspaper with the same kind of quality journalism and reporting that I had come to expect from reading Independent Weekly. Instead, you all deliver smut, every week, without fail. In your "Queer Issue," you have managed to highlight and reinforce the negative stereotype that gays are sexually depraved freaks, which is exactly what conservatives fear the most in denying them equal rights. Way to go! Most gays that I know are regular, contributing members of society who keep their sexuality as private as anyone else, except perhaps at a pride parade. Your constant focus on sexual topics also undermines liberalism; just because you CAN write about sex as much as possible doesn't mean you should. When your editorial staff is ready to graduate from the 9th grade of maturity and deliver the independent journalism that this city so desperately needs in the wake of losing the P-I, you'll have another reader. Until then, your target audience of hipster MySpace alcoholics with herpes will be the only readers you will draw in. Grow up.

John C.

Clearly, John C., you are a rare exemplar of independent homosexual thought. I clap your back in brotherhood! (Though not literally, lest I fall ill, too—and not in reference to that "liberalism" nonsense, either.)

Messer C.'s letter does not leave me much space with which to address this issue of The Stranger; luckily, it is a subpar one, even for the sad median provided by these illiterates and shoplifters. BETHANY JEAN CLEMENT visits a restaurant that is not even two blocks from the shoddy Dumpster that serves as The Stranger's offices. Surely, her Pulitzer for Journalistic Daring will arrive in the post any day now. ERIC GRANDY blithely accuses a chanteuse of lycanthropy (werewolfism is a curse and not a joke, Mr. Grandy, and the sooner you learn that, the better). And the immense, idiotic man-child who writes under the obviously phony moniker PAUL CONSTANT babbles incoherently for what seems like forever about Twitter. I will tell you all you ever need to know about Twitter right here, in a fraction of the space Mr. Constant requires: The only two people who pen Twats worth reading are yours truly and the delightful future Presidentress of the United States, Ms. Sarah Palin.