Somewhere far back in the bodily-fluid-stained annals of Stranger history, this pitiful excuse for a tabloid knew its place. It was a weekly reader for homosexuals and other freaks of nature, and it provided information about how to avoid hemorrhoids, which shades of mascara go with which variety of chaps, and other useful tips for people who violate God's sacred covenant with all decent humanity. Granted, it was still an abomination, but it was a shoddily photocopied abomination intended solely for other abominations. Decent people were never ensnared in The Stranger's sticky web of shame.

But something happened. I suspect that overpermissive liberal elite scum Tom Brokaw is somehow to blame for the slackening of people's ability to discern news from filth. (I understand that a recent survey revealed that four out of every five Americans were unable to discern the difference between a marital aid and an egg beater—damn you, Brokaw!) But here is my point: For some reason, The Stranger is now considered a reliable source for citizens who are trying to determine for whom they should vote.

And this issue is thick with Liberal Pansy Brainwashing of the worst kind. We begin with ELI SANDERS's ridiculous screed about why Dow Constantine is losing to my good friend Susan Hutchison. The answers, Mr. Sanders, are far too obvious for your second-rate, convolution-loving mind to grasp: Susan is one of the great thinkers of our time, and Mr. Constantine is a funny-looking little pencil-necked geek. Further, I hope Susan will address Mr. Constantine's possible status as an illegal Greek immigrant on her way to easy victory. Give it up, Mr. Sanders. The Seattle voter has had far too much of your merry band of abortionists and stem-cell worshippers, and your precious Mr. Constantine will be the first to fall before the Great Red Tide.

But the sad electoral prancing continues: DOMINIC HOLDEN attempts an intellectual attack on my good friend Tommy Carr. Everyone knows that Holden assaulting someone with his brain is akin to a paraplegic toddler tackling a teddy bear with a butter knife. It is obvious that Mr. Holden is simply jockeying for a public-relations position in some mythical Holmes administration, which will luckily never come to pass.

And then BRENDAN KILEY, who I am coming to believe more and more with every week is just a pseudonym for Megan Seling (who is pathologically unable to stop her embarrassing panting over men she finds "dreamy")—this "Mr. Kiley" pens a love letter to Mike McGinn that I would say must be read to be believed. Unfortunately, this horny ode to the man who will handily lose to Joltin' Joe Mallahan on November 3 is so hormonally driven to irrationality that it cannot physically be read by people with intelligence and reason on their side (i.e., men and decent Christian women).

Finally, because this paper originally made its name by promoting everything that is wrong-headed about Seattle's arts community, I have this to say about DAN SAVAGE's interview with a musical-theater personality: gayer than Oscar Wilde at a primary school.