
But this takes the cake.
The headline kind of says it all:
"Man eats cocaine from brother's butt, dies."
As one commenter put it, "Crack kills."
Posted by former news intern Paul Holmes
Well, that was quick. I'm done, Slog. I feel like I barely had a transition from nervous-yet-overconfident fresh news intern to jaded-yet-wise-and-still-overconfident former news intern. It's been good and satisfying, by way of not being exactly what I expected. Rather than try to force out more platitudes, I'd like to share non-sequitur things I'm taking with me from The Stranger.
1. A profound love for grammar and formatting. It's just a free, uncomplicated extra step to make any piece more effective. And I appreciate getting called out on errors by commenters.
2. Tolerance and generally warm feelings toward trolls. Even the most inane, bitchy, trolling comments and commenters flatter us by proving that what we write is worth responding to. And it's the sort of incredibly cruel, honest feedback you can't get anywhere else, which is useful, provided that you actually give a shit about what you're writing and have opinions and stuff. It's also fun to predict who will comment and what you all will say.
3. A tattoo. Mom and dad, it's a bass clef on my left shoulder blade. I got it on the night of October 28 after a few drinks. Hat tip for the idea to care bear.
Bye, Slog! I had an absolutely great time here. If you're at all curious, here's what I've been up to for the past couple weeks, and will continue working on for the next few months. (Go Sex Week!)
P.S. My dad is running for mayor in 2013.
By purchasing a portrait of the magnificent lady beast for your own.

By Seattle Mag. He's still a foul-mouthed fucker and never sends us donuts. Also he's impulsive, irrational, and totally brilliant.
My brother just called to tell me he's been awarded a Navy SEAL contract. I was less than thrilled when he first brought up the idea of becoming a SEAL a year ago, and reading up on their training and deployment did nothing to soothe my liberal, big-sister hand wringing (why the fuck couldn't he grow up to be a teen dad like his friends???). But after watching him work for the last year—running marathons in hiking boots, swimming miles with a brick in his mouth, morphing into one giant ab, etc.—I'm really proud of him for getting his goddamn contract. He's earned it. (Goddammit.)
And what better way to celebrate that fact than by paying a hairy man $5 to write Congrats! on his stomach and dance his fucking ass off? (Hat tip to TVDinner for the idea!)
I love you, buddy! Reach for the stars!*
*And then quietly smother them in their sleep.


Ain't love grand? Congrats you two. All of your friends & frenemies at Slog wish you many, many more happy years together.
In response to Eli's post about our German friend Ratzy saying, finally, that Jews are not responsible for Jesus's death, my very funny sister, Maureen, says:
Actually, it was gay porn stars who killed Christ. I mean, come on, you've seen their Roman soldier get-ups, those lace-up boots and the short armor skirt? They might as well be on a casting call for A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to Santorum.
I'm just saying, I would totally rent A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to Santorum.

Happy 75th birthday, Paul West.
And the Youtube video was posted yesterday and already has more than 2.6 million hits. Discuss.
Apparently Daniel Burnham never said, "Make no small plans, for they have no magic to stir men's blood." My brother, AKA "Chicago Fan," busts Chicago-area Burnham fetishists in this piece in the Chicago Reader. As much as I hate disagreeing with my brother about, well, anything, I have to say that I'm kinda into "The Last Four Miles."
I apologize in advance for using the up the Internet on this post about Chicago, which isn't even in Seattle, and Slog's a Seattle blog, and why don't I know that, and I know, right? I'm a moron.
My brother took this photo of Cal Anderson Park, which is practically inside our office—so posting it is a double conflict of interest—but it's so damn cool. Click the pic for a larger version.
A week ago this evening, from 10 pm to midnight, Lindy West and I got very drunk at an AM talk radio station in Bellevue. We were there to talk about the results of The Stranger's sex survey, though we weren't technically even allowed to read the sex survey as it was worded because of all the rules about what you can and can't say on the air, and yet hilariously, during the show, one of the hosts said "fuck" inadvertently. (She was reading aloud that a Stranger reader had written "Fuck a unicorn" as the one thing he wanted to accomplish sexually before he died. The techs were unable to bleep "fuck" in the live airing but presumably it's bleeped now. Haven't listened to it again.) The first hour's here. The second hour's here.
(Yes. TWO HOURS. Of talking. One of us, nervously, could not shut up. But Ms. West? She was all poise. It'll be a few hours before Slog gets hopping, and you've probably got nothing else to do. Those links are totally SFW—so long as you're wearing headphones.)
My brother emails:
November 23 | Feast day of St Clement (Pope Clement I, or Clement of Rome), martyr
(Convex wood sorrel, Oxalis convexula is today's plant, dedicated to this saint)
St Clement, the fourth pope of the Roman Catholic Church, the first of the successors of the Apostle St Peter about whom anything definite is known, and the first of the ‘Apostolic Fathers’, is the patron saint of tanners, as, by tradition, he was one himself. His symbol is an anchor, as he was thrown into the sea tied to an anchor. He is also patron of boatmen, marble workers, mariners, sailors, sick children, stonecutters and watermen.
A Clement is mentioned by St Paul in Philippians, iv, 3, but there is no evidence to assume that he was this Clement, who is said to have been the third or fourth pope (the Vatican's Annuario Pontificio (2003) cites a reign from 92 to 99). A 9th century tradition says he was martyred in the Crimea in 102, but earlier sources say he died a natural death.
After Clement, or Old Clem as he was known to English blacksmiths, was martyred (if he was), two of his disciples prayed to find his remains: the sea retreated for 3 miles, and they could walk to where an angel-built chapel was, with St Clement's remains in a chest of stone, by the anchor. Every year the sea did so, on St Clement's day and remained dry for seven days.
Children in pre-Reformation England went in procession on this day, and at night, adults went out to beg a drink. Hence this day was marked with a pot on old ‘clog almanacs’. (A clog almanac was a primitive almanac or calendar, originally made of a 'clog', or log of wood. The sharp edge of each of its four faces was divided by notches into three months, every week being marked by a large notch. The face to the left of the notched edge contained the saints’ days, festivals, phases of the moon, and so on in Runic characters, for which reason the 'clog' was also called a Runic staff.)
Clementing
In the Midlands of England, children used to go 'clementing' for fruit and pennies, singing a rhyme about St Clement....Sources include Pennick, Nigel, The Pagan Book of Days, Destiny Books, Rochester, Vermont, USA, 1992, p. 129; Encyclopaedia Britannica, 1911; Wikipedia et al
More after the jump.