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Squid #512
(published November 11, 2010)
Ask the Giant Squid: A Quiet Prayer for Comatosity
Who is Poor Mojo's Giant Squid?
Dear Giant Squid,

~Comatose, 'entertained-to-death' humans must wake up and learn how to defend themselves from their worst enemies {not your fellow human beings}, and have a real, natural, life for the 1st time in a century, learning what real love is {Agapeo, phileo, eros} and that it isn't applied to lower life forms {flora & fauna} or possessions/material things that have no soul, but for The Maker of All Things [GOD] and each other, equally~

*

Jim Sorrell
Spokane, WA


Dear Jim Sorrell,

The easiest and most obvious humor to craft at this moment would be to note that my lab assistant and "guy Friday," Rob, is fond of altered states of consciousness and wishes to know where he might procure the substances and/or fibrous neural deposits that enable you to boldly craft such queries.

But such a joke would be cheap and beneath me, much like your mother, dear Jim. But clearly I jest, for it is well documented—both kinetoscopically and upon the many men's room walls of Craig's List—that your mother prefers to be on top, riding my tumescent mating tentacle in the manner of the Cowgirl. That is, until the Great Spermatic Reckoning of my concupiscence, and then she is more than delighted to slither off from my Passionate Pole and—but I digress, afore I delve too deeply (again, making obscene gestural reference to your mother) into a neither work-safe nor family-friendly description of anatomical juxtapositions most delightfully profane.

Forgive me, Dear Readers, I am in a mood most vexed. For you see, my lab has been invaded.

It began this Wednesday past, shortly after I had crafted the earliest draft of my treatise on the Big Bang. (Note: that same day and the following Rob did find the grand hilarity in making jokes about the "Big Bong" [note pun], a device he describes as for becoming "crazy-ass faded" that was so perfect in its design and execution that it could not conceivably have been shaped by the hands of Man. Rob swears he saw such a bong "at this one party one time in, like, Ann Arbor in, like, 1990-somethingish" although it was a party to which he was not invited and thus he spent the evening addled on cheap inebriating spirits, malt beverage, and "mini-thins," leaving him wrapped tight in the smothering embrace of a paranoia most profound, said embrace only lifting when he spotted, like Molly Ringwald in a Hughes-ian drama, the love of his life across a crowded room: the Big Bong. In short, I am sick unto death of hearing of the damnable Big Bong—which evidently was equal parts "gravity bong," hookah, and "honey-apple-ice steamroller," whatever that may be. Dark Gods curse and defile whatever man, beast, or eldritch spirit crafted the stupid, stupid, stupid thing.)

In any event, on this Wednesday night I awoke to find chief engineer/mechanical advisor/automotive mastermind, Devo, hanging a tasteful persimmon-shaded four hundred thread count Moroccan cotton duvet cover over the doorway near my tank. As I was about to regale him with a torrent of questioning, I heard a piping femaleic voice cut through the hum of the office machinery.

"So this is where you work?" I heard the sound of a purse shuffling. A finger was drawn across a dusty shelf. "I imagined it would be nice." A lozenge was unwrapped. I could not hear which flavor, but the atmospheric sensors noted a marked increase in artificial butterscotch flavorings.

"Ma, I told you—" Devo was interrupted by a hand gesture. The motion detectors were unsure as to what kind, so I will imagine it was a finger drawn sharply across the throat.

"I just figured that my son with his fancy engineer job in the Renaissance Center would have an office commensurate with his experience." Another finger wipe. "This place, is a dump."

I was about to make my displeasure known—How rude of this interloper to condemn my offices suchly (Are they dusty? This is not a metric I am familiar with. Dust, you see, does not exist in the sea)—when Devo cut the power to my amplified speaking device. (The saucy cur!)

"C'mon, Ma. I made up a room for you near my workroom. It'll be cozy." A beat. "Please stop tidying, Ma."

After an hour Devo returned and restored power to my Vox Architeuthi system and stereo.

"I'm real sorry about that, Boss. It's just she needs a place to stay for a few days. Y'see, her place up in Mackinaw City burned down and the hotel she booked online to stay at, well when she showed up it was shuttered and abandoned. Fuckin' Travelocity again, y'know?"

"YOUR MOTHER WAS ENGAGING IN THE COPULATIONS WITH A PERSON NAMED TRAVELOCITY, AND THIS CAUSED HER DOMICILE TO COMBUST?" I asked slowly, making sure I understood this preposterous story. I worried that this "mother" was in fact a skilled confidence artist, preying upon Chief Engineer Devo's kind and homosexual nature. It happens; I have read as much in the tabloid newspapers which Rob used to array before my tank for my researches.

Devo stared at me and sighed heavily, rolling his eyes in confirmation. "Yeah. Basically. Got it in one guess, Boss."

"IS YOUR MOTHER INTO FIRE PLAY OR CANDLES? I SAW UPON ROB'S COMPUTER'S FLAT-SCREEN MONITOR A WEBSITE DEVOTED TO VARIOUS HUMAN SEXUALITY 'KINKS'—WHICH I PRESUME THEY ARE CALLED BECAUSE THEY CAUSE SUBOPTIMALITIES IN PRIMARY FUNCTIONS—AND HAVE BEEN FAMILIARIZING MYSELF WITH THEM, IN CASE SAVAGE 'DANIEL' SAVAGE EVER RETIRES AND NEEDS A REPLACEMENT." I leaned close to the tank and turned the volume dial down to WHISPERS—CONSPIRATORIAL, "ARE YOU CERTAIN THIS IS YOUR MOTHER? SHE RESEMBLES YOU IN ONLY THE MOST SUPERFICIAL WAYS, ACCORDING TO MY CLOSED-CIRCUIT CAMERA ARRAYS, SMELLOMETER, GRAVITOMETER, AND THE X-RAY SPECTACLES ROB PROCURED AT THE CHARLES CHEESE'S SKI BALL PARLOR."

Devo sighed again. He held up a hand and ticked off fingers as he spoke. "Yes, this is my mother. No, she is not into kinky shit. She is so vanilla that close-up shots of flowers seem smutty to her. And yes, her house burnt down and she will be staying with me for a few days."

It was my turn to stare at Devo. "BUT YOU DO NOT LIVE HERE. YOU HAVE BEEN CO-HABITATING WITH SPIDER, YOUR FORMER LOVER."

Devo nodded, ran a hand across his bald pate. "Yeah but see, Spider and my mom don't get along. And it isn't the gay thing, they just clash. They both try to do the dishes first, cook first, and so on. They, well, I guess they compete too much. So for the next few days I'll be staying in the bunker next to the lab with my ma. I'll try and keep her out of your way."

And thus, dear Jim Sorrell, I find myself without the patience to untangle your madness. Lest it grow like kudzu and entangle my mind as well, anything to distract from the constant ragged purr of the Dust's Buster, and the ceasing buzz of an audience encouraging the Coven of the View.

It has been seven days, and still she is here, endlessly tidying and clucking of her tongue.

Wearily I Remain,
The Giant Squid
Editor-in-Chief
PMjA

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