It has often been suggested, based on the minimally coherent pablum splattered within the pages that you are (lamentably) perusing at this very moment, that The Stranger's writing staff shares just one severely addled brain amongst themselves. If this is true—and over the years I have only encountered more and more evidence that it is—then today brings proof of a corollary theory I have long espoused: The left side of this addled brain has no earthly idea what the right addled side is doing, and if there are in fact any synapses left firing in a functional manner within either of those cerebral hemispheres (which seems doubtful, given the muck of illegal toxins that must be gumming up the works), they, too, are barely communicating with one another.

To wit, this week's "Economic Survival Guide," which purports to teach the unemployed youth of Seattle how to succeed in wealth accumulation without even trying—grifting, prostituting, and leeching, goes the predictable advice—while at the same time admitting that its writers work in "a dying industry" and live day to day on "little or no cash." But this point-negating exercise in absurdity is not the biggest thought error in the issue. That comes in presenting, right next door to this hapless self-help nonsense, DAN SAVAGE's latest money-making scheme, named, no doubt for disgusting reasons that I wish not to dwell on, HUMP!

Now, HUMP! may be filthy and run afoul of morals laws at both the federal and state levels—I have said as much in past years and await the reply of government investigators—but it is very clearly lucrative. By my accountant's tally, Mr. Savage is this year handing out $6,250 to the "best" examples of videocassette prostitution that are submitted to his "amateur-and-locally-produced porn festival." If I know Mr. Savage, this means his take from last year's "festival" was something far, far in excess of that amount, with this year's prize money being just a trifle of cash that he has not yet had time to fritter away on male prostitutes, gerbil removal surgery, and dresses that would make the good Mrs. Steen reach for her fainting couch. My views on his deviant behavior are well known at this point, but as a strict capitalist I must also point out, ladies and gentlemen of Seattle, that this is how you make money.

Not by following a bunch of grammatically suspect advice from the shiftless paupers who work beneath (and/or atop) Mr. (and/or Mrs.) Savage at this worthless rag, but by finding a formula for raking in cash and mercilessly pressing it upon the working class, year after year, until they do not know what to do with themselves unless they are giving you money. Take note.

In other nonsense, JEN GRAVES babbles about a woman named Kiki (which, I must point out, is not an appropriate name for a woman), DAVE SEGAL explores a woman named Maneesh (my stars, see above), and the fair-haired ERICA GRANDY returns from something called South by Southwest, more tan, less intelligible, and, as always, the brightest star in this doomed galaxy.