The last time my pen touched these accursed pages was just after the Pulitzer Prize committee had set its good name ablaze by awarding Eli Sanders—and by extension The Stranger—its highest honor. This was the proverbial last straw for me. Then-editor Christopher Frizzelle used the opportunity to unceremoniously “kill me off” via a cerebrovascular accident.
That Mr. Frizzelle believed a senior citizen having a stroke was suitable chuckle fodder speaks volumes about the brand of “humor” in which this loathsome publication has specialized for an interminable quarter-century. Was I surprised? I was not. This, after all, is the paper that once published a photo spread featuring an adorable child as a prisoner at Abu Ghraib. Eat your heart out, Milton Berle.