You have truly evolved. I bow down to you.
A Loyal Reader
Dear Giant Squid,
I challenge you to a duel.
Dear Giant Squid,
how do i find you?
South Central Los Angeles, CA
My Dear, Loyal, Clear-Headed Readers,These questions above that I have chosen to answer, deigned to grace with the brilliance that is mine most swift and terrible to command, may seem at first unconnected. You may wonder, whilst lying in your bathing tub and pondering the wisdom you so eagerly go "online" to peruse every Thursday morn, thenceforth spending the remainder of your short, irrational monkeyday in a species of stuporous enlightened trance, your mind sent a-spin by the revelations I eke out to you on a weekly basis . . . You may wonder why I have made to chose these three questions. these seemingly unconnected questions to answer.
It is often in this world that there are connections where one perceives them not—even with optically perfect eyes. Indeed, true wisdom, Architeuthian Wisdom comes from realizing and following all of the heretofore unseen connections down the path of glory and refinement until we perch upon the precipice of madness and sip from the goblet of knowledge.
I have been sipping, you see, upon the goblet of knowledge. Or, with greater exactitude, from the bottle of Absolute Knowledge. Or, even yet more completely exactly, from the bottle of Absolut vodka that Rob abandoned after we watched the Cali-Forn-Aye-A election last night— helpfully introduced in series with my tank filtration and aeration system by Barnabus and his crew (such helpmate chimps as they are.)
Possessed I am of a cousin (this matter is not tangential or to the side! This is indeed of the thrust, so watch with care! Watch and follow the thread I know spin!) I am possessed of a cousin who dwells in a cavern deep beneath the San Franciscan bay. He finds the bay currents soothing, and enjoys much the Occidental Coastal lifestyle. As such, I have always concerned myself with the goings and comings of Cali-Forn-Aye-A. My cousin is addled, you see, addled in the brain sac and it has fallen to me to be his watcher and keepcarer. Sigh; there is a sadness to such familial responsibility, is there not?
In the interest of watching and protecting my kin—I have no kith, per se— I made observation of the elections on the MSNBC and the CNN and then, I watched the jolly monkey-japejester Jon the Steward on the Comedic Channel, and he did well make to form my pain to ever-so-little the sweeter form. Oh that Johnny boy, his pipes, his pipes they call me home!
Rob quoth, unto me and unto his self, "Dude, uh, Lord Architeuthis, sir. If they elect the Governator, I am so gonna get totally shitfaced tonight."
This caused very much confusion and panic. I had been reading up on the diseases humana and the transfer of bacteria through fecal material and immediately called upon Barnabus & Co. to restrain Rob (my robotical manipulator arms as of yet still in a state of non-function Damn Sang and his infernal Eastern Laziness!), afore he could sicken himself with his own waste materials. We have a saying, in the Trenches of the Marianas: "One does not excrete waste materials in the currents in which one chooses to swim and hunt." Why oh why do you strange gruntchimps (in high contrast to standard chimps) lack such simple gnoses?
An hour later, Rob awoked and told me of what he meant by this shit-facing, and explained vodka, the Ambrosia Dietical, unto me. I chided him, and explained that the populace of Cali-Forn-Aye-A was far too savvy and intelligent a breed to be hogswindled and adder-baited into voting for this mockery of man.
And lo, I was the wrong.
I address now only the Californians in the audience, all others please look away: You have made me speak wrongness, and deeply shamed yourselves and all other Americans. I am disgusted in the Most Extreme.
The questions above share a connection, a commonalty: They all originate from Cali-Forn-Aye-A, and they are each and every of singularly poor quality. They are no true requests for advice, or help, but rather just a monkey-flapping of gums.
I have spoken to my Bay-dwelling cousin. He, too, is enraged. He has called up an army of the jellied-fish, the turtles that snap, the crab lice and the hammerheaded sharks.
They are even now scouring the Westernmost Coast, looking for this "Mike," this "Loyal Reader" and this "Unsigned." When these individuals are located— and, oh, they shall be located— inflicted upon them shall be the bites and pinches and the jellied stings until such point as these Cali-people realize their error in electing this faux-man Governor, and until such point as they have better questions for one such as I, the Great and Terrible Architeuthis dux (and soon Rex Mundi) to make for to answer. And, as far as questions and queries go, "Dear Merciful God, when will this unbearable pain stop?" does not count.
Shamed to be an Immigrant-American,
Your Giant Squid
Love the Giant Squid? Buy his first book.
Share on Facebook
Tweet about this Piece
Poor Mojo's Tip Jar: