For the WHY, you must look only at this magazine and its many failing which I am sure to rectify. I cannot, will not and shall not go into these details again, rather, I ask you to read my previous missive on the subject of this "Almanac"'s status as such. I also ask that you not end in that place, seeing with me that this is in fact not an Almanac(k) at all, but some horror-show of failure and want, but instead see with me how this Almanac-less-ness is indicative of a deeper and more searching collapse of standards which might be made right by my seizure of power.

To put it the more briefly: I plan (planned) to take (have took... taken... absconded with?) over this journal of little record. I plan to do so for the purpose of writing its many wrongs, and leading it stridently (though I do not stride) into the fearsome and glory-holing future (though I plan someday to live permanently in the past, along with Dr. Lister).

Now, to the HOW:

Believe it so or believe it not, I am actually possessed of a long and impressive pedigree when it comes to the making of take. On the points of the facts, I note somewhat bashfully that I myself, your own Architeuthis dux, have in years gone by been known as a sort of sub-mariner Robbing the Hood. And, in truth, I bear quite the resemblance (in spirit, since not in physical form) of that histo-mythical figure, with but a single notable difference: while the fabled Robbing Hood stole from the pecunious to give the impecunious, I have traditionally stolen from the weak to enrich myself, or simply stolen from the weak in order to lay waste to their kind wholesale.

But, then, let it simply be known that I am old-manipulator at the smash-to-grab, the pickled pocket, the confundere scam, the Spanish Prisoner, the Nigerian 417, the pigeon's drops, the two-knock shuffle, the gas and go, the eat and run, the drop and gobble, boiler-room stock & bond sales, three card Montague, dirty the pool (and often I have), cups and balls, off-books accounting, oral swordfight, Bolognese hockey, ballot-box stuffing, two-fisted love— to be freely French, the list goes on and on for nearly 21 and one-half miles (rendered in 12 point New Courier fontage.)

With such a vast arsenal of tricks, trades and tools, the deciding of how to proceed, with the utmost honor, alacrity and personal enjoyment was itself a nigh-unto month long wrestle with a great and terrible dilemma, sharp of tooth and venomed of claw— at which time I finally settled upon lo classico: blacking the males. I thumbed through my dossiers, sent my lab assistant Rob on several garbage raids, completed a few telephonic calls, and in short order found myself in possession of a vast array of embarrassing pornography, half-completed love letters, gin soaked confessions and a truly magnificent collections of quality studio portraits of several editors dressed gender-inappropriately.

I arranged to meet each in turn (or, to be true, owing to current malfunctions with both my velocitating surface suit and the freight elevator, made back-to-back appointments for them to come to the laboratory), and proposed they surrender their scurrilous rag to me and my control postal-haste, they themselves remaining in my employ as so many step-and-fetching, genuflecting copy-monkeys.

Strangely, before I even had chance the first to reveal my stash of shame to the Fritz, he shouted, "the magazine? The Magazine?!? Take the damned thing! Take it ALL!!!" and ran cackling down the hallways.

He may have shouted "Free at last, free at last" as he ran, but this is a matter of conjecture.

David the Nelson, as it came to pass, was somewhat harder of a nut to crack. My gallery of embarrassment had little affect on his demeanor, and he continued to brayingly demand remuneration for his third-share of the editorship of the magazine. After much haggling (damn his wily semitic tongue and terrorfying hooked nose— so much like my own fearsome beak!) we agreed on a price of $17 dollars, a sextapack of cheap fermented wheat juice, and Rob's fine denim coat (To which matter quoth Rob "Damn! We better get rich of this magazine shit, Lord Archituethis; that coat had beer I spilled on it at the last show Jerry played!")

Morgan "the Mojo" Johnson, for his part, could not be reached for comment, negotiation or coercion, so I took the liberty of simply forging his signature, after the fashion of the Siamese Kings of yore.

Strangely, it seemed to me, at the first, that I would plan this action, explain it all to you, and then take the course set down-this being the manner, both super- and supre-villainous, as cinema has informed me. But, certain developments in and about my laboratory have lead to the choosing of a course alternate: having taken the time to plan the action and then taken the actions planned, I shall additionally take action retroactively. Consequently, from this paragraph forward the magazine, shall be mine. Is mine. Has always been mine . . . or, that will have had been the case upon the completion of my temporal dislocation velocitator. On said journey, along with capturing the almanac(k) long before it captures me, I shall also kill the baby Hitler, give Jefferson Davis a Device Nuclear, and transplant an aged Doctor Lister and all of his notes to 14th century Cuba. The last for my own pleasure.

But, to clarify, at this time and for all time descending from this, I function as owner, editor-in-chief and crack-content provider of this fair publication; patriarch and scion, the Lord self-reborn, in my name, amen.

And finally, to the BENEFITS:

Plainly put: More of me, more of the time. I would think that reason enough to do almost anything (save to develop a way for me to fit into a sportier velocitator . . . this general axiom being counter productive to that single purpose . . . oh dear lord how the delectable sweets and candies of this world torment me).

Also, of course, there shall be a unified front from which this maga-blog-journal-almanac(k)-o-zine might progress. When asked of what this journal pertains, you can say with just surety and confidence that it is a website published weekly by a Giant Squid living in the Renaissance center of Detroit, Michigan, though he had one time resided in Cincinnati, and still years before had been involved in someway with boxing as it grew and developed from the ancient Olympics to the present.

Succinct direction, purpose and focus shall be my never-ending goal and gift to this magazine, her readers and submitters of prose and poetry and sometimes art.

I shall eliminate redundancy. I shall give focus and meaning and clarity to the endeavor. I shall eat dogs. (Lord, how I hunger).

So, that is all that I shall to you utter. The magazine is mine. The laboratory is mine. All checks shall be made out to me. All contracts shall be made with me. All submissions shall be reviewed by and responded to by me. And the time machine shall be completed forthwith. I have assembled the tin foil, the plastic/rubber finger monsters and the Tesla coils and it only now rests with Devo and the Ramirez brothers to add the paint job and the singularity.

Thank you and good week to you.