For some inexplicable reason, I am forced to write my column before the election results have been announced. Believe me, I searched for answers as to why, but of course none were satisfactory. For example: Between hits on a marijuana pipe that was conspicuously (and horrifically) shaped like a part of the male anatomy, Dan Savage muttered something about "printing schedules" and then cast his rheumy eyes out the window and across the street to the tight-panted young man who was running frantically after a bus. Poppycock, obviously. If I am "politically corrected" when I say this, so be it, but a man of means—which Mr. Savage, for all his moral bankruptcy, purports to be—should not allow the illegal immigrants who print his mockery of a ladies' home companion to dictate his schedule. One must remind those in one's employ that one can place an anonymous call to the INS at any time one wishes. In these great United States of America, you can determine a printing schedule of your own choosing, by gum!
Regardless, allow me to make a prediction: My darling Susan Hutchison is by now confirmed as the new King County executive. Congratulations to you, Susan! The executive has never before looked so pert. And Joltin' Joe Mallahan has crested into the mayor's office on a landslide of votes. I have not yet read the Stranger Election Control Board's account of these stunning victories—damned Mexicans!—but I am sure the experience will deliver a delightful bit of what the blasted Germans refer to as "schadenfreude," which translated literally means "the pleasure of crushing your foes beneath your boot heel, especially if they are French."
In nonelection news, BRENDAN KILEY bloats a theater review into something unnecessarily long and boring. It appears to be about a play glorifying the demise of the Seattle liberal's house organ, the Seattle Post-Intelligencer, which right-thinking Seattle residents referred to as The Stranger in a suit and tie. I recommend that right-thinking Seattle residents look at Mr. Kiley's extended diatribe as they would at a morbidly obese lady who has burst her girdle—that is, avert the eyes.
Other pages of The Stranger do not reek quite so badly with irrelevancy. Instead, they reek of a more fecal odor. For instance, LAUREL MILLER opens her restaurant review, which is ostensibly supposed to be appetizing, with an unrepeatable reference to something that decent human beings should not be able to even imagine. I have seen this descent into literary delinquency happen again and again at The Stranger. It is disappointing to see Ms. Miller try so hard to "fit in" with her "peer group." I would urge her to seek better peers instead of trying to find a place among flailing writers like the silken-haired ERICA GRANDY, who this week interviews a collection of goats and tries to pass it off as a music review. My dear woman, I know you are starved for content, but I must warn you that going the route of Charles Mudede's animalistic urges is nothing short of madness.