How can I possibly get all my Christmas gifts wrapped and mailed out before Christmas?
Ah, to the Yuletide we progress hither.
There is indeed a mass to this Christ of yours, and it seems to grow with each year, the matter of the season aggregating into clumps upon clumps, so that the post cannot handle it all. Much of the mass is lost in transit, collecting in that great Lagrangian point of holiday cheer know as the San Diego terminal. And of that refuse of many a misplaced yule-time, much has collected in that terminal. I know this because every five years the transport authority disposes of the collection discretely in a deep sea trench off shore some distance.
I remember fondly the days of yore when we, the creatures of the deep, would wait in the trench for the many wondrous items of mirth and terror for which your post system cared so little.
For your edification, a brief list of the items most cherished in Yuletides past:
We adolescent squiddlings— whilst the adults looked on sac-scratchingly, they being far beyond the delights of simple pupae-hood things, left to only wonder at these neck-your-ties' twisted, misbegotten hideousness— loved these most of all. Oh, how we adolescent squids— as well as the porpoises and tube worms and men-of-wars— delighted in these undulant, ghastly strips textilios, greedily gathering them up so as to festoon ourselves in an ugliness we found quaint in its excessivity. Ah, to be young again . . .
So I say to you, Horace of the earth world, however you manage to package and ship the items of the season, do not forget the playful desires of the benthic deep. Mis-address but a few choice articles so that, in their misdirection, those packages may to some point come to the Diego Saintly and be dumped forthwith into the sea.
If, however, this avoidance on my part of the actual giving of advice perturbs you, may I suggest that you insert a yule-log into your ample, nog-engorged rectum and set it afire to burn cheerily low these twelve dark nights of winter.
Yours in Saturnine Glory,
The Giant Squid
Love the Giant Squid? Buy his first book.
Share on Facebook
Tweet about this Piece
Poor Mojo's Tip Jar:
Copyright (c) 2000, 2004, David Erik Nelson, Fritz Swanson, Morgan Johnson