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Squid #103
(published October 10, 2002)
Ask The Giant Squid: Abusive Asshole Needs His Shit Fucked Up Good So He Can Know What It Fucking Feels Like
Who is Poor Mojo's Giant Squid?
Dear Giant Squid,

I don't really know a gentle way to put this, so I'll just blurt it out: my husband abuses me, both physically and emotionally. He's really not a bad man, I know this for a fact, but his temper is ferocious and hard for him to control, and his mouth and fists too often lash out before his brain can get control of them.

I am both terribly embarrassed and terribly scared and have no idea what I should do or can do. Please help.

Confused and Bruised in Saskatoon

Dear Confused and Bruised,

That is just, like, too totally fucked up. You've totally got to waste that fucker. For real.

Like, for example, my p— my loyal lab assistant Rob's best bud, Suveer, has this sister, Samra, who was totally up the same creek, right?

Samra was totally, totally the best fucking lady— swear to God, just a cool, cool chick. She was totally all into, like, jazz and classical music; you could go over to Samra's place and, like as not, she'd be spinning these wicked-awesome old 78s on her turntable, like Gene Krupa and shit like that, Clara Rockmore playing the Rach on the theremin . . . whatever. Samra was mad-crazy cultured, but never in that snooty fucked-up way. She was just plain folk, but plain folk with a superfuckload of class. Her apartment was, you know, small (she worked as a secretary or some shit), but all decked out with the subtle lighting, antique posters in French and shit on the wall (and I'm not talking framed posters from The Print Gallery— this was for real, honest to fuck antique shit she'd dig up in these tiny, jam-packed holes in the wall, these little antique shops in piss-ant dead towns like Allen and shit.)

And she was fine! Fucking fine as hell. Her skin, it was, like, dark and velvety— like, we'd all sit around in her kitchen, around her candles, and she'd tell us stories and shit, and I'd just stare at her, at her teeth and her velvet skin and she, man, she was just too fucking much. She was that great. Totally.

But then she marries this total prick, and moves and, fuck, next thing you know she isn't listening to her albums anymore ('cause he doesn't like 'em) and she's started smoking again, and all her funky cool posters and big printed silk drapes and shit are all gone and forgotten.

And, also, she's getting real flinchy, right? Like, you go to light her smoke, and she jerks back from the light, and then apologizes and smiles a little. It's fucked up. I mean, we're talking a graceful lady, right? But after a few months of married life, she's suddenly clumsy as fuck, always tripping on her way down the hall or fat-fingering a pot of pasta and scalding her arm.

I mean, it doesn't take a genius, right? This one time she even showed m— showed Rob her stomach, where the fucker . . . he'd . . .

It was FUCKING FUCKED UP is all. It was too fucking much. But she wouldn't do, wouldn't go, 'cause she fucking loved him, or owed him or— fucked up as it sounds— fucking pitied him.

She fucking pitied him. How fucked up is that?

And you can tell someone, you can be like "Shit, lady, you've gotta call the 5-0 and get this fucker put away," but they'll still make excuses, say he still loves them, and it's their fault for being clumsy and stupid and blah blah bullshit.

But, so, sooner than later, friends gotta come forward and do what's right. A guy can be a pretty tough prick when he's working his lawfully wedded wife over, but shit's different when it's, like, 5 able bodied guys comin' up on you, noble fuckers like Earthman Rob and his trustworthy associates.

'Cause it's the shit that's gotsa be done, like knights in white satin all around the round table, getting their swing on to take out the king and restore Democracy and shit.

Yeah, but, so, they totally just came up on that fucker in the dark, when he was coming out his office, out to his car to go home. They had socks full of quarters, and they beat the fucker . . . they beat him like they figured he liked it, hard and long.

Not Suveer, though. Suveer, a civilized fucker, wouldn't do shit like that. But it wouldn't mean that Suveer's buds— his real pals— it wouldn't mean they wouldn't do it, wouldn't know it needed to be done.

And, shit, yeah, sure, maybe the fucker died in the hospital, internal bleeding and a few too many whacks to the noodle

and maybe they felt bad as fuck and shit

and, fuck it, maybe Suveer's sister fucking bawled her eyes out for that fucker at his funeral.

But, like, whatever. He was a piece of shit, and if I coulda laid tentacles to him, I would have totally fucked him up; that's not the kinda shit we put up with back on Tremulon-4, baby. No way.

but, you know, in some extra grisly way. And ass fucked him, too. Shit like that.

Yeah, so, that's where it's at.


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