Week after week, the cover of this miserable excuse to sell advertising to worthy businesses attempts to lure the naive and the subliterate into its pages by means of bizarre cover images that, invariably, have nothing whatsoever to do with the so-called content. Said content is always an incondite collection of solipsism and juvenilia. This week, the solipsism and juvenilia begin right on the cover, in the form of DEREK ERDMAN's self-regarding crayon drawings. Presumably, young Erdman's parents have friends in The Stranger's "art" department, but they would do well to confine his budding "artistic expression" to the door of the family icebox.

Inside, the petty self-concern continues, as The Stranger revisits what the editors clearly view as the single biggest story of 2010—no, not the Republican surge in the midterm elections (as I write this, my old acquaintance from real estate circles Dino Rossi is surely riding that conservative wave to victory), but rather: "Hey, Why Can't We Get Better Cocaine Around Here?" To recap: In August, Stranger theater fop/huffing enthusiast BRENDAN KILEY "investigated" the rising numbers of cocaine samples seized by the Drug Enforcement Agency found to contain levamisole, an agricultural-grade deworming drug with the power to cause catastrophic immune-system crashes in human beings. The fruits of this investigation: a worm-free bill of health for Mr. Kiley and a promise that, beginning next week, Stranger readers will be able to start testing their own cocaine, with the help of some liberal Seattle scientists and, if you will allow the euphemism, "harm-reduction" agencies. Meanwhile, Mr. Kiley seems to be shocked to learn that murderous criminal cartels are involved in the narcotics trade—and more so that they might be urinating in the cocaine vats.

Elsewhere in this issue, DOMINIC HOLDEN laments the bust of a fellow cannabis "head" and implores the Seattle Police Department's brave men and women of uniform to "just chill out, man." The irony of The Stranger's drug-addled hand-wringing is bad enough, but its solution—that legalizing drugs would somehow disincentive the criminal drug trade and save the government money—is laughable on its face.

As for the rest of this issue... CHOW: Charles Mu- dede travels to Spain and discovers that snacking on small plates can sustain a wine binge indefinitely (in the glory days of Franco's Spain, his Marxist hands would not have got anywhere near a tapas)... FILM: Lindy West eats an entire turkey and compulsively masturbates—same as last week... MUSIC: Skipped it (though noted sadly the absence of Erica Grandy's usually comely column photo)... THEATER: Brendan Kiley sits still long enough to discover that "Hamlet is deep"... VISUAL ART: Appears to be about The Simpsons—not interested... BOOKS: Paul Constant reviews a haunted-house novel (evidently this was meant to appear in last week's issue and got mislaid)... I recommendedTELEVISION™: Contains the surprisingly honest sentence "How did I—a barely literate narcissist and sex addict born in the rabid goat-infested mountains of Lithuania—rise to the lofty position of America's most beloved television columnist?" (see solipsism, juvenilia)... SAVAGE LOVE: Once again, the topic is polygamy... CONTROL TOWER: Pseudoscientific caveman polygamy.

Follow A. Birch Steen at www.twitter.com/strangerslog.