Dear Readers: It is with deeply conflicted heart that I praise this week's edition of The Stranger. Not for its content, mind you. So what, you ask, could possibly redeem the journalistic travesties assembled in this and every issue? You hold in your hands the paper's annual, to say nothing of uncharacteristically charitable, Strangercrombie Auction Issue. Once a year, this publication cajoles whatever readers and advertisers it has not yet driven off by miserable grammar, poorly reported stories, or outright falsehoods to donate tens of thousands of dollars to charity. The $40,000 raised for Northwest Harvest—a sum that almost inspires one to forgive the reportorial atrocities committed by this publication on a weekly and now, thanks to Slog, daily basis—will do something The Stranger itself has never managed to do: It will make a difference.

As you may know, in addition to selling donated goods, the paper sells itself, offering up its usually "sacrosanct" editorial pages—from the cover to the columns—to the highest bidder. I know, I know: While any sane person would pay any amount of money to avoid being written about in these pages, every year people actually compete for the honor. Indeed, they pay for it! The mind fairly boggles. So however badly it sticks in the throat, however greatly it distresses the bowels, it nevertheless must be said: The Stranger has made the world a slightly better place, at least for one week, and its staff deserves nothing but praise for it.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to soak my innards in gin.