While touring Europe in the flower of my midlife, I took a class on Middle Platonism as taught by the esteemed professor John M. Dillon at the Centre for the Study of Platonic Tradition at Trinity College in Dublin. You will perhaps accept that as a credential when I declare that this issue of The Stranger is the Platonic ideal of what every issue of The Stranger aims to be: entirely irrelevant, out-of-touch with the wants and needs of Seattleites, and far too gay for its own good.

For instance, in the news section, DOMINIC HOLDEN aims his blunted darts toward the struggles to bring a gay pride celebration to Capitol Hill, a topic that has been covered to death, resurrected from its sealed tomb, and then cruelly tortured to death again by Stranger news writers over the years. The formerly talented Mr. Holden is obviously attempting to win favor with his masturbation-addled cohorts with this dreck; I fully expect him to ooze out a manifesto about why Seattle needs a monorail-based public-transit system in next week's edition.

The feature, by former Stranger writer GRANT COGSWELL, is about the creation of a highly flawed, and too gay, horror movie. As with many Stranger freelance- produced features, it flies miles above the quality of the writing in the rest of the paper, but it hints that we may see more of Mr. Cogswell in The Stranger in the near future. I urge him to reconsider and find gainful employment with a news outlet that does not consider a fart joke to be the apex of western civilization.

In the music section, TRENT MOORMAN drools all over a band with the unfortunate name of "Truckasauras." Here are three words that appear in the piece: porkwich, titties, and Hulkamanian. I rest my case.

In the books section, PAUL CONSTANT types on a million typewriters for a million days and comes up with a paean to Dungeons & Dragons, which is a ridiculous satanic children's game that rose to prominence and promptly disappeared in the 1980s. And, for the coup de grâce of irrelevancy, ANDREW BLEEKER reviews a sports book that debuted in 1994. No doubt Mr. Bleeker has been working on reading this book for the full 14 years; his lips must be tired.

And finally, in the food section, LINDY WEST visits an all-you-can-eat buffet at a strip club. I have often wondered idly, while flipping through Ms. West's inarticulate scrawlings, whether there would be any possible way for her to wedge the word "butthole" into her work with even greater frequency. This food review, in which the offending word makes up roughly every other word in a 1,200 word (!) review, is my answer. Kudos to you, Ms. West, for one-upping your sleazy compatriots. There should be some sort of award for that level of infamy—although I shudder to think what the golden statuette would be shaped like.