For some reason, most Seattle-area politicians—save the few beacons of intelligent conservative thought such as my good friends Susan Hutchison and Dave Reichert—allow the degenerates behind The Stranger to interview them during election years in hopes that they will earn the paper's endorsement. Here is quantifiable proof of how foolish it is for candidates to caper and kowtow to baby-killers and known criminals: JONAH SPANGENTHAL-LEE takes aim with his alleged "wit" (the man is famously as sharp as a stick of butter) and fires a mawkish hit piece at Stranger-endorsed mayoral candidate Mike McGinn.

McGinn, of course, is a tree-hugging fascist in the style of President Hussein, but that is beside the point. Spangenthal-Lee's incoherent exposé—I believe it has something to do with McGinn's fascination with bicycles, which are toys for children who do not yet have driver's licenses—is clear evidence of the lack of ethics of this "newspaper." You do not simultaneously shake a man's hand and stab him in the back, Mr. Spangenthal-Lee, even if the stabbing is done with a weapon as stubby and miniscule as your journalism. In the 1950s, at least Communist sympathizers knew they could rely on each other for support. My old friend Joe McCarthy, rest his soul, would no doubt join me in pining for those good old days when there was at least honor among thieves.

Some weeks I wonder if I have been cursed by an ancient Chinaman: I am sad to report that Mr. Spangenthal-Lee's morally outrageous character assassination is the most interesting thing about this issue. The rest of this week's hobo swaddling is as dull as dishwater, which Maria, the dark-eyed Hispanic who used to tend my kitchen, assured me is very dull indeed. BRENDAN KILEY gets high on Liquid Drano (much like Maria did before I was forced to fire both her and her children) and blathers for nearly five whole pages about octopi. Kiley, who once ate a pigeon to amuse his friends and then told the world about it in these pages, can't manage to write about the beasts without sticking one or two into his filthy mouth, but by the time the reader has pushed through to the third paragraph of this cavalcade of inanity, he will be wishing that one of those grabby, satanic creatures from the deep had eaten Mr. Kiley instead.

There is not much else to report: The cowering man-boy who goes by the obviously pseudonymous moniker of PAUL CONSTANT whines fatuously in both the film and the book sections this week, thereby rendering two entire pages unreadable. CHRISTOPHER FRIZZELLE worships a member of the New York Media Elite in a theater piece—the world may never be able to discern what, exactly, he is reviewing. And a fresh hire named LAUREL MILLER turns in a well-written piece about hamburger sandwiches. Ms. Miller: You are new to this whoremonger of a periodical. Get out now, before you are forced to insert even more curse words into the body of your text, a body that is too well formed for these peons to defile.

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