My question for you is: Do giant squid make any noises, similar to those made by whales, dolphin and most other (smaller) ocean fish?
If giant squid do make noises, what do they sound like, if you can describe.
Any help on this would be much appreciated and make my novel far more authentic.
I await your return email answer.
Ah, the Chinese, their secret stealing and their secret keeping not; these are doubtless issues of the moment. Is their any nation more markedly secretless, less inherently capable of maintaining the secret than the China? Perhaps it is their paper walls, or their prognosticatory pastry, or simply their vast numbers, but the cats, they invariable slip extra-sacktual in a Chinese presence. (Civets everywhere, I understand.)
I direct my much-loving readership to the following piece of erudition by one David Chung.
For those uninterested in fully examining this foul and scurrilous (if technically accurate) screed, let it be known that the moment arm muscle force of my great and mighty tentacles cannot exceed the moment arm of surface gravitation, due to the dimensions of much much loved arms, and thus it is not possible for me to lift my tentacle up to an optimal (or even sufficient) angle, super-surface, to attack a ship. The rumors of such attacks on surface ships have been much eagerated. The dearth of buoyant support in the Searing Upworld, in combination with gravity's relentless embrace, renders the whole matter a simply impossibility. For this, I am much the excitement regarding the announcement of the President Pro Tempore viz. our great nations imminent return to the Moon. Moon gravitation, being less than 20% that of surface gravitation, would make it much akin to a life under the sea, without the hydrodynamic drag of the waters. Do not misperceive: I love the waters much as any cephalapod, but nonetheless stretch forth in imagining the boundless freedom of floating waterlessness, where the tress-like curls of my tentacles might move in all directions, limitless, and the true breadth of my strength behold and adored. As such, my administration too shall guarantee a return to the moon and, what more, much sooner. Once Team Squid is put within Royal American Office, we will immediately bend every effort toward the establishment of Moon Base Squid, colonizing no later than April of 2008. It shall be a glorious future with such brave newness in it, and the face of terror shall ever shine downearthward. Amen.
But, in final more direct address, how might one ever mistake a giant squid for a belugar (or, should I say, much beleaguered, yes?) whale? How terribly blurry are these sonar camera devices? Do your roadly police similarly mistake the Ferious Ari and the PeopleDare with their radar cameras, of which Rob, my lab assistant, does curse so vehemently? I thought he was much vexed of the inconvenience of stopping his conveyance and being obliged to have his rectum probed for contraband, but perhaps it is the technical frailty of these devices, which might take a hawk for a handsaw, which bring to him such the frustrations.
I shake my great and terrible headsac in wonder of the vast sloppiness of the operation of this country. Trust well, that in One Nation, Under Squid, our radar cameras will know the Furiarri from the Volkswagen, our sonar cameras the difference betwixt blubber whale and mighty sleek cephalapod, and we will need not even slow your velocity to inspect your colon.
In final, actual compliance with your question, while I am loathe to say squid, in general, make "noise," I would rather indicate that I myself, as a squid, am wont to "bust ruckus" and drop of the doped rhymes while my Dj rocks the turning tables. It is the Truth. Word.
Shall post samples of such at my earliest convenience. Otherwise, back toward the campaigning trail. Vote Squid!
Your Giant Squid
P.S. My preferred posture of attack, when setting upon surface bits and pieces, is to hurl the tentacle directly up from the dark beneath, rocketing it skyward bursting from the water's surface, to flop crosswise on my assailed, and thence to coil my muscular arm inward, downward, beakward. I have found this to be quite effective against small wooden rowing boats occupied by pubescent, applecheeked farm boys on a holiday from their chores, with their friendly and lowly beagling dog aboard as companion. The summer's heat of the boys and canine, having sat in the full, drowsy sun all afternoon, is much a like eating of a Gino's pizza roll which has been over heated in the micro wave oven, and then briefly tossed in the freezer afore being dispersed through my feeding chute. In texture and taste, sublime.
Love the Giant Squid? Buy his first book.
Share on Facebook
Tweet about this Piece
Poor Mojo's Tip Jar: