by Mark Gardner
Those of you who are regular readers of this newspaper have probably noticed that this space often contains a humor column. Well, after some thought, those of us at the Free Press have decided to put an end to all that. We ask you, how can we in good conscience allow you to sit around chuckling when the world is full of murder and pillage, and while little kittens remain lost high up in Elm trees? So, no more humor.While we're at it, let's get a few more things straight. Some readers have accused us of being stuffy Victorians because we don't write much about sex. They surmise that we sit around knitting when not deep in the throes of revolutionary fervor. Others perhaps think we often neglect sex because most of our readers already know how to entertain themselves. Besides, that market's saturated here in Seattle.
Nope, these views are wrong. We don't write about sex because we think it's a bad thing. First of all, sex often leads to babies, which are a prime cause of overpopulation. What, you might say, about gay sex, and what about birth control? Sorry, but that requires latex. Do you think we are going to stand idly by and let the rain forests be razed and planted over with rubber trees just so you can enjoy a few spasms of pleasure?
But what about the pill? Just a conspiracy of the pharmaceutical companies to disrupt the natural rhythms of our sisters, orienting them away from a life in harmony with our mother earth Gaia, and toward a life of indulgence and consumption. So, no sex.
You'll also notice that we don't do restaurant reviews. Some people think that this is because our budget wouldn't allow anything other than serial reviews of Dick's. Wrong again. We don't do restaurant reviews because we don't want to encourage excessive gustatory indulgence. Restaurants push the flesh of rain forest-mowing cows who heat up the planet with their flatulence, and serve vegetables and grains oozing with pesticides.
So, no more Coq au Vin, or Pasta Primavera. Instead, we'd like to offer you the Free Press diet. It consists of organic wheat mash, brewer's yeast, recycled newsprint for roughage, and a dash of gourmet tamari sauce for flavor. Dried and broken into bite size pellets, and grouped into three daily meal packets, the diet provides calories equal to the average daily consumption level in the Third World. Send us 25 dollars for a year's supply. Bon appetit.
Other readers have wrongly surmised that, being such a tragically-unhip rag, the Free Press is indifferent to body piercing. Nothing could be further from the truth. But piercing needs to be done correctly. Public piercings, done unprofessionally and without anaesthesia, provide an ideal opportunity for catharsis and repentence. Imagine weekly piercing sessions at Gas Works park. After donning their sackcloth Free Press t-shirts, and engaging in a little self-flaggelation while chanting MEA CULPA, MEA CULPA, MEA MAXIMA CULPA, penetants would atone for crimes against humanity, such as voting Republican, coveting thy neighbor's gas-powered lawnmower, or watching episodes of "Married... With Children."
Other readers have wondered about the abrupt disappearance of music reviews from these pages. Has staff turnover led to their temporary demise? Nah. We've decided it's not worth killing trees just to provide space for the wares of yet another sleazy corporate behemoth. Music is just a bourgeois plot to knock the masses senseless and lure natural leaders away from their true calling. What would the world be like right now if Mozart were tone deaf? And forget this stuff about the pop musician as social critic. If Joe Strummer of the Clash ended up hawking Levis, what fate could await lesser souls such as Sting or P. J. Harvey?
If we had to sum up our views in one broad principle, it would be this: fun is a primary cause, along with race, class, and cola beverages, of a breakdown in the solidarity of the masses. Miserable people of the world, you have nothing to lose but your chains! The unfolding of historical processes means that some day a good time can be had by all. Then, we can all say, party on, dudes! But for now, no fun while others are glum.
Now that everything's clear, I'm off to something more constructive, like creating posters of Seattle City Attorney Mark Sidran with a Hitler moustache, and plastering them all over telephone poles. Oh, one last thing- we've got to get rid of that damn cartoonist.
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Contents on this page were published in the August/September, 1994 edition of the Washington Free Press.
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Copyright © 1994 WFP Collective, Inc.