Let's be honest here, since the writers found elsewhere in this scandal sheet, as I believe I have irrefutably documented by this point, are all either pathological liars or too intoxicated to be trusted (or both). If we are being honest, we must admit that, in spite of all its self-delusions, The Stranger is simply not the publication that a reasonable person would pick up in order to have the truth revealed. A reasonable person like myself picks up this paper only in search of vaguely entertaining lies (see Stranger Suggests), damned lies (see Savage Love), and twisted statistics (see anything from the news department).

Now, do not be confused. This is not to say that I think the people who read past this page are mostly reasonable people who know the score and are simply in search of distraction or a revivifying spike in blood pressure. Quite the contrary. I will tell you an instructive story: I once asked the publisher, Tim Keck, if I could convene a focus group of those who sit rapt in front of this rag each week, being as I was at the time completely baffled as to who might do such a thing. He declined to pay for the exercise, but suggested I could get a representative sample for free at any AA meeting, methadone clinic, sex-addict support group, STD testing facility, or "medical marijuana" growing operation. The scales, as they say, were removed from my eyes.

I bring all of this up by way of offering my perplexed reaction to the feature this week by Paul Constant, who seeks to speak the truth about the 9/11 Truth movement to—well, this is the question, isn't it? Who, exactly, does he think he's enlightening? A word, if I may, Mr. Constant: If you write a thoughtful critique of a bunch of tinfoil-hatters (as to your credit, you have done) and it runs in a publication taken seriously by only tinfoil-hatters, addiction-support-groupers, and narcoleptics—well, this is what we call shouting into the void. Mr. Constant, I applaud your effort, and your commitment to reason, but the fact remains: Trying to make sense of a bunch of nuts for the benefit of another bunch of nuts is crazy.

A note to my concerned readers: Many of you wrote in a few weeks ago to express your alarm that I didn't single out a piece on the joys of testicle eating, by the apparently man-hating Angela Garbes, for special scorn and derision. I'll admit that I skipped over her "review," having already vomited once while reading that particular issue. But based on your suggestions, I later forced myself to read it, at which point I sent a stern letter to Mr. Savage suggesting that someone like Ms. Garbes, with so little respect for the sanctity of certain organs and such a high likelihood of cannibalistic impulses, posed an imminent threat to the paper's one remaining shred of dignity. I see from this week's issue what comes of such complaints: Ms. Garbes has apparently been promoted to reviewing respected dining establishments like the Oceanaire Seafood Room. Sophisticated male diners of Seattle, you have been warned. recommended