Seattle Space Needle Reflection at Night

Biting the Hand

I’m going to let you all in on a little something: People cannot change their gender. No, it’s true, they can’t. At least not without killing themselves.

I know, I know, this news will really piss some of you off, but don’t shoot the messenger for I didn’t make it so.

See, gender is determined by chromosomes. If you have Y chromosomes, you’re a male, otherwise, you’re a female. You can pump yourself full of hormones, change the tone of your voice, grow your hair long, get the best fake knockers that money can buy, and chop off your wang

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Fresh Meat

A couple of weeks ago, we went to Pike Place Market to grab some food from the Market Galbee Korean place. When we got there, we were suprised to find that it was no more. In its place was a new food stand called “Pike’s Pit BBQ”.

“What is this?! I don’t like change!!”, I called out, at which point I closed my eyes and held my breath until the gods or whoever put things back the way I had grown accustomed to them. When I opened my eyes, everything was restored to its previous state, so we got

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Mooned

So, How’d The Test Go?

Never mind, the wet sign lying in a puddle of dirty water tells us all we need to know about the results of this test.

Not that we needed a test to tell us anything. Seattle is a town where dogs go to daycare, people live on the streets, the Mayor wages endless war against the poor, and 80% of the residents belong to the political party that fought a war to preserve slavery.

I mean, really, brother, what did you expect?

“Not fair! That was a long time ago, Rex, the Democratic Party of today is much different

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Specific Dolphin

General Porpoise Donuts

Extended adolescence. It’s all the rage these days. And instead of shaking my fist at the infantile suburban tourists who pass through Seattle on their post-collegiate staycations, I’ve finally accepted the fact that, short of hiring a few black guys to move to the neighborhood (Sticky Fingaz from Onyx “black”, not suburban-friendly Obama “black”) I can’t do anything to make them leave. That’s right, 2016 will be the year when I finally try to live in harmony with the attention-starved kidults. After all, it’s not their fault that they’re 35 year-old soul-less blank slates, void of

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Camper and Cracker at The Crocodile Cafe

Johnny Hickman's Vaporization. May he Rest in Peace.

The Crocodile Cafe’s, uh, excuse me, The Crocodile’s (because “cafe” is passe’) lighting technician claimed another victim on Friday night.

Cracker had just taken the stage after opening act Camper Van Beethoven’s set, when without warning, the tech aimed not one, but two high-powered spotlights at the guitarist, instantly vaporizing him.

As the panic-stricken crowd raced for the door, front man David Lowery, summoning nearly 30 years of audience-savvy, declared “damn the set list, we must play a hit to regain control of the crowd!”, at which point, he launched into the opening bars of 1993’s “Low”.

It was

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