I have just been informed by Mr. Savage and Mr. Keck that, due to "publishing issues" that are, I'm fairly certain, fictional, I am forced to complete my column before the election results are in. I'm certain this paper is trying to keep me from gloating about the Conservative Wave that will no doubt sweep the electorate on Tuesday. They are deliberately withholding from me the no-doubt-teary election wrap-up by the STRANGER ELECTION CONTROL BOARD about the massacre of all things liberal.

I was, in fact, advised to keep the column apolitical this week. "Write about ERICA C. BARNETT's restaurant review," Mr. Savage said. "DAVID SCHMADER and PAUL CONSTANT have articles about nerdy comic-book characters—you should write about that," Mr. Keck suggested. Obviously, I'm ignoring their drunken pleas—in this bold new America, even fewer Seattleites will care about the scratchings of a wannabe food reviewer who reportedly thinks curry makes a fine midmorning snack or two stoned mental midgets who think Ziggy is the apex of Western literature.

To hell with it: By the time you read this column, Dino Rossi will be our governor. To Governor Rossi, I say: Godspeed to you, good sir, and I would trust your steady hand on my tiller any day. There is no man better to lead this state in important issues—of respect for pro-life concerns, of reviving trickle-down economics, of quashing these pitiful "mass transit" rumors that have been circulating the dining room at Ruth's Chris Steak House in the past few weeks. No one of any consequence ever had any doubt that the best man for the job, this time, was well and truly a man.

But there is a place for women in our government: at Number One Observatory Circle, in the position of vice president. I have not yet met our sultry and firm Number Two; on the occasion of the last National Review cruise to Alaska, I had fallen ill with a rare arctic strain of malaria and my doctor would not let me leave my quarters for tea with Ms. Palin. I look forward to gallantly kissing her hand—I've practiced on multiple occasions with my cleaning lady, Roberta—and greeting her as Madame VP.

And John McCain. I cannot overstate the love and respect I feel for this man, this war hero, this magnificent, majestic stud horse of a public servant who was nearly taken political prisoner in my stead during that awful, wrongheaded Keating Five debacle back in the '80s. I welcome you, Mr. President—you'll be on Mount Rushmore soon enough.

No doubt half of the staff of The Stranger has overdosed on inhalants and methamphetamines by the time you read this, out of sheer sorrow that their candidate is returning to his terroristic Chicago roots. These children have probably realized by now that there is no room for their little STD-ridden weekly reader in John McCain's America. I feel no pity for them. I feel only joy at the conquest of their values by the better candidates and the will of the American people. recommended

publiceditor@thestranger.com