Another week, another feces-smeared shit parade of half-assed "content." Keep up the hard work, you diddling imbeciles! Perhaps if you post a few more fashion sale alerts or YouTubes, you'll manage to stay in business for another seven days! I mean, I certainly hope you won't, but perhaps you will.

Let's get this fuckery over with.

• Denis C. Theriault continued to give the reeking street urchins of Occupy undeserved attention. This week, he was giddy when the dreadlocked ruffians stole an idea from a fictional billionaire vigilante who recruits "wards" to his deviant lifestyle.

• As one suspects occurs on a nightly basis, Wm. Steven Humphrey nocturnally ejaculated. He then thought it appropriate to graphically describe the underwhelming dream that inspired his humiliating emissions. Keep waiting for that Pulitzer, Mr. Humphrey.

• Speaking of ejaculation, Tony Perez saw fit to share with his reader that he loves "sitting at Nostrana's pizza bar and watching the cooks throwing and spinning their dough."

• Rather than attending a musical performance, Courtney Ferguson wrote about going to a bar to gawp at advertisements for musical performances. My, Ms. Ferguson! What an exciting life you lead!

• Having run out of Portland "news"—such as dweebs' bat-signals, one would suppose—Alex Zielinski found herself reassigned to the rabbit beat. This demotion seems appropriate, and I will allow it.

• "Frocky Jack Morgan Makes Itself At Home!" trilled Marjorie Skinner. MS. SKINNER. NOBODY HAS ANY FUCKING IDEA WHAT THE FUCK YOU ARE TALKING ABOUT.

• Sarah Mirk mirked herself into a tizzy when she learned that her boss' cellular telephone will not help him obtain an abortion. I'm shocked to say this, but I found Ms. Mirk's video quite heartening: At least someone in the Mercury offices has morals. Siri, I applaud you, whatever the hell you are.

• The perpetually unloved and unwanted Ned Lannamann asked which foster home he should live in. That is what I assume by his headline, at least; as ever, I did not bother reading his post.

• Like a sow in mud, Alison Hallett continued to wallow in her untreated clinical depression.

• As he has since his mother's failed attempt to get an abortion in Salt Lake City, Utah, in late 1979 (Siri, are you somehow to blame for this?), Erik Henriksen wasted everyone's time with a crackpot theory about meaningless pop culture. No one bothered reading it.

I will return next week, and not one moment before. I urge you to do the same.