“The Scrot” at the Stranger office: only a sack this big could warrant detailed cosmetic attention. the stranger


We saw you drying your nut sack and taint with the hair dryer at the gym. What the fuck, dude?


You were a buxom drag queen standing on Broadway near Chase Bank in a black-purple gown: Your hair literally looked like a flame engulfing your skull. You'd clearly put a lot of thought into your wig's color and shape. So hot, girl.


On the northbound 5 bus, you two dudes were both wearing gray hoodies, black pants, and squarish glasses. Oh, and you both had nearly identical bright blue and violet mohawks. Despite your similarities, you were sitting at least four seats away from each other, completely absorbed in your own phone games. (What up, Smashy Brick!) Was there some glitch in the Matrix? Were you both very hair-conscious twins who happened to be in a tiff? Or were you just two dudes fighting conformity in precisely the same way?


It was a Friday morning, the day after Bernie Sanders delivered an online address to his supporters to update them on the "future" of his campaign. Trailing Hillary Clinton in every count except pure enthusiasm, lots of people expected Bernie to drop out that night. But you know Bernie. The future of the campaign, he announced, was that he was not going anywhere. The next morning, you walked along 10th Avenue toward Pine Street on Capitol Hill wearing a black "Bernie for President" T-shirt and a sleeve of tattoos. Staring straight ahead, you looked sad but mostly just determined.


"Get that squirrel! That's right, get that squirrel!" You said to your two dogs—one a Russian wolfhound and the other an eager pit bull—as they pulled you up Boren Avenue on your Rollerblades. But there was no squirrel around. It was a trick. Or maybe the squirrel was invisible and only you and the dogs had the ability to see it. The pit bull was falling for it, but the wolfhound wasn't about to be pressed into sled-dog labor. This about the 214th time we have seen this horrific bit of makeshift dogsleddery on the hills of First and Capitol. Put the Rollerblades ON the dogs, and then we'd be talkin'.


On a gray and drizzly Tuesday, you were a young woman carrying a very big canvas bag and walking south on Westlake Avenue in South Lake Union with your friend. As you strolled past an empty storefront on the street level of Amazon's Nessie building, its windows covered with black paper, you talked about your shoes. They were black suede lace-up sandals with four-inch stacked wooden heels. A cold wind blew across your exposed toes and heels, and the pale flesh of your feet oozed out from between the laces on the top of your foot. "Oh my gosh, they are soooo comfortable—even the heel is, like, bouncy," you told your friend. "Mmm-hmm," she replied, as she moved much more easily in her black leather slip-on sneakers. "No seriously," you insisted, "sooooooo comfortable!"


We saw you at the Whip Restaurant and Gallery in Vancouver, BC. You were white, male, and 35ish. You were sitting at the bar and talking to a group of men you had just met. You explained to them that you made a living from re-voicing TV shows and movies. What you have mastered in your life so far are the many accents of the English language. You provided details on the differences between a Birmingham accent and a Scottish one. You made a show of your Australian and Brooklyn accents. You told the men, who were drinking beer and listening with great interest, that voicing came down to the tongue, teeth, lips, and, most importantly, the muscles in the throat. When you have a command of those muscles, then it is easy to imitate any sound. You also said that lots of practice was needed to reach this level of command. "You need to fail, fail, fail until the muscles in your throat start learning... You know what FAIL stands for? First attempts in learning." The Church's "Under the Milky Way" played as you freely offered information about your profession.


You are a series of windows on the west side of the Allen Institute for Brain Science, facing Ninth Avenue in South Lake Union. Behind your glass panels are an arrangement of blue, magenta, and white letters, artfully layered to look like nerves and synapses from a distance. Printed onto the glass of one section are several sentences: Within these walls we ask questions. What makes us human? How do cells work? Behind the sentences is a bright-white panel with big letters spelling out words such as How, What, Do, and Makes. As we squinted and struggled to read the white words on the window, obscured both by the white background and the reflections on the glass, we found ourselves wishing that someone, anyone, during the design and installation process had asked, "How can we makes this text legible?"


Near Denny Way by the Whole Foods, you were sporting a topknot the size of a grape. If there's a competition among Seattle men for the tiniest man bun (and we think there is, our eyes do not deceive us), then by golly, you may have taken the crown.