I can't imagine that any member of The Stranger's shiftless "demographic" is paying attention to matters of state this time of year, what with all the extended daylight hours currently available to them for defacing private property with graffiti, fornicating in public parks with reckless abandon, standing in the queue for the latest government handout, and then using said government handout to buy more sprayable paint and (one hopes, because the world does not need more of these people) more contraceptives. But, on the off chance that Dominic Holden, Eli Sanders, Cienna Madrid, and the rest of the members of the inebriated "Election Control Board" have managed to draw your attention to the upcoming primary election with their despicable promises of jokes about mothers and bodily fluids, I feel it is my duty to say: Move along. Nothing to see here.
Really. If there were any chance that this endorsement issue would call for my political nemesis Jim "Flower power" McDermott to finally be thrown out on his pansied derriere, or for my former secretary Jaime "Right as Reagan" Herrera to be picked to represent the upright people of Kelso in Congress, or for my former lawyer Jim "Lock 'em up" Johnson to be retained as a state supreme court justice, or for the insufferable Frank "House the hobos!" Chopp to be retired—if there were a realistic chance that any of that would occur, then of course I would personally endorse these endorsements. Of course nothing of the sort has occurred, and instead The Stranger has once again received its marching orders directly from Communist Party headquarters, photocopied said orders, annotated them with incomprehensible scribbles and heart-shaped doodles around some unfortunate object of its lust, and then mailed it all off to the printers.
About that object of lust: Joe Fitzgibbon, you seem like a fine young man—save for the D next to your name and the fact that you don't adequately appreciate how rarely 23-year-olds like yourself make decisions befitting the responsibilities of high office. So, because I find your youthful innocence somewhat endearing, I offer you three words of advice: sexual harassment lawsuit. The damages you are entitled to from the drool stains alone could provide a nice nest egg for you and the missus. To say nothing of the damage to your reputation from being seen as someone who would knowingly court the affections of these pederasts. Call me. I know a few lawyers.
In other travesties, a man named GRANT COGS-WELL, who quite perfectly fits the typical profile of a Stranger freelancer—"a year and a half ago I was unemployed, essentially homeless, and pushing the last of my salable possessions in a shopping cart four miles across the flats of the San Fernando Valley in order to sell them for exactly seven dollars"—writes a self-indulgent exploration of a movie that is, for inexplicable reasons, being made about him and his failed 2001 run for city council. The Stranger: giving failure a chance to shout its own praises every week since far longer than I care to remember.
Follow A. Birch Steen at www.twitter.com/strangerslog.
