After last week's homosexual extravaganza, things are getting back to normal here at The Stranger. What this means is that the homosexual agenda has been turned back down to a dull, continuous roar in the background and the ineptitude has been turned back up to its normal deafening volume.
Case in point: Alleged non-homosexual PAUL CONSTANT minces his way through a "think piece" about Republican presidential candidate Herman Cain for much longer than is necessary. All I could glean from a brief skimming of this piece is that Mr. Constant finally met a meal he did not like (apparently, judging from Mr. Constant's girth, this article is intended to be fiction) and that he is experiencing conflicted feelings about the fact that a prominent Republican candidate is African American. In response to his confusion, Mr. Constant unleashes a flood of unstructured, lazy, racist musings. (Elsewhere in this issue, Mr. Constant turns his attentions to material more appropriate for him: He reviews a children's picture book and a movie for adolescents.)
As if we have not suffered enough, The Stranger also serves up a double helping of JEN GRAVES this week (are all the staff homosexuals experiencing post-traumatic stress disorder?). She examines an art collection by a housepainter (credit where credit is due; this piece is actually readable, if you do not concern yourself with grammar and diction), and then later in the paper she screeches about feminism in her usual hysterical way. Should I note that, once again, Miss Graves has no worthwhile art to comment on in Seattle and has to go all the way to Oregon to find something to write about, i.e., this paper could easily do away with her position? Seattle simply has not produced an artist worthy of an art critic's attention since Dale Chihuly lost his depth perception.
CITY: A photograph of a gun has The Stranger in a full-scale panic—there are not one, but two articles about it this week. Meanwhile, guns are perfectly lawful, especially for law enforcement.
THEATER: If a tree falls in BRENDAN KILEY's forest, does anyone care?
BOOKS: Reeling from the silence of someone he promised to get a reaction from, CHRISTOPHER FRIZZELLE instead writes about an inconsequential degenerate who doesn't know how to write. How fitting.
CHOW: BETHANY JEAN CLEMENT forces sausages on people. Voyeurism ensues, as well as boredom.
MUSIC: A musical outfit entitled Helms Alee confronts TRENT MOORMAN's Seusslike interview style, and the members acquit themselves admirably. In the not-acquitting-themselves-admirably-at-all department, GRANT BRISSEY, TRAVIS RITTER, and KELLY O "cover" chickens, smashing guitars, and homosexuals, respectively.
FILM: Mercifully free of LINDY WEST's gaseous writing.
SPORTS BLOTTER: The glee with which this newspaper reports only on the wrongdoings of athletes is baldly un-American.
SAVAGE LOVE: In the name of freedom, I skipped it.