This week last, and for the future forseeable, my team of co-horts and my own great and munificent body have been, will be and are— forever forward— preparing for the Michigan Primary Electionate.

My several hearts— deep and impossibly varied and missive for to be sufficiently drawn within the conception and understanding of the general gaggle of stinkchimps called humanity (of course making exception to each and every Registered VoteCitizen intending to cast his or her or its ballot squidward next Novembrus; these noble gruntmonkeys are doubtlessly possessed of a certain and indefatigable "groking" of my "vibe")— have been broken into smaller bits of heart material by recent events brought attention by Vice-Candidate and intern Molly and esteemed Janitological Expert and Data Gatherer, Lab Assistant Rob.

My breaking-of-hearts began one mid-morning this week, when I bellowed through the loudspeaker attachment Sang has provided for my convenience and amusement.

"Rob!" bellowed I, "Rob! Come here and henceword! I have needs to press upon you!"

And shortly, beckoned by my charm and volume, Rob emerged from the restful room.

"Hey Lord Architeuthis, what the fuck's with the volume man? You get it up that loud, and it makes the water do this funky trembly shit in the shitter, and my ass gets wet, and it's totally gross and creepy. Are you smirking?"

I let the silence spin out.

"Shit's not funny, man. How'd you like to get shitwater splashback?" He shook his little shaggy cranium with dawning understanding, "Christ, what the fuck do you care? You're, like, already swimming in it and shit. Goddamn."

"I regret the overdriven amplification, Rob. I have needs."

"Is it time for another Doberman?"

Ahh, this Rob, he knows my tastes as well as I know the pleasure of the dog-flesh. "The time for speech has passed, dear Monkey Numero Uno. It is time for the reading of the Primary Results! On the televisual screen, all of the results have been announced from Nuevo Ham Shire, and my name, Rob, is conspicuous in its absentery."

His face, pale already as the callow mackerel, became paler, and his eyes, already as bugged and goggly as the blind cave fish, bugged and goggled more. He sputtered in such a way that I feared, briefly, that my tank had ruptured and filled his fragile mammalian bronchia with the water of life.

"Shit, uh, Lord A, man." Rob removed of his transverse baseballer cap, ran his puny, bony manipulator through his be-greased hair. "Out of all the delegates in New Hampshire, we got—"

"We, little Ape-Spawn friend?" I waved a tentacle in a soothing manner, drawing out the training that has been hammered into the measly thirty cubic centimeters of cranium provided to this poor, but dedicated, specimen of your species.

"Uh, sorry, you, Lord A. You only got one delegate. Lyndon LaRouche got four. We, like, totally bit the shit on this one."

Foiled again I was by this Lyndon The Red! Never before had such fury shook my tentacles. Bested I was in the Newest of Hampshires, but defeated I was not. That The Red! His conspiracies, accurate and true! How can I hope to best the man who has ferreted out the terror that is the Duke of Edinburgh

If it has got four legs
and it is not a chair,
if it has got two wings and it flies
but is not an aeroplane, and
if it swims
and it is not a submarine,
the Cantonese will eat it.

Poet, philosopher, dark magic(k)ian of forgotten lore: if he could not escape The Red, how might I? Despair, she looms in the water like the awful chill ink of desolation.

I cried out for Rob, Molly and the other members of my Electioneering team. They gathered listlessly, no doubt weighed down by the shamefulness of our defeat

"Team, a dark day has fallen upon us. Much unforseen, we have tasted the ashes and bitter dog-meat of defeat in these Primary contests of Hampshire. How could this have happened?" I asked rhetorically; nonetheless, Rob raised of his hand timidly.

"Yes, Rob?"

"Because we totally didn't, like, campaign or anything."

There were general grunts of agreeance.

"I'd sort of gotten the impression," Molly offered, "that you'd intended to run as an Independent. Why do you want to run on the Dems ticket? I mean, that's already a fractured playing field . . ." she grew unsure in her gaze, "Not to mix metaphors too terribly. 'Overcrowded playing field'? Sorry. Something like that. Anyway—"

"Yeah," Rob chimed in, "I mean, no debates, or speeches to high schools or monster truck rallies—"

Molly looked Robward, askance, but I was curiosity piqued.

"Monster trucks?" I queried.

And Molly took up of the conversational reins: "His point is that . . . well, you know, like they say in those Lotto ads: 'You've gotta be in it to win it.'"

"Ahh . . ." I nodded of my headsac. "Indeed."

Molly and Rob shook of their heads.

"The point," Molly finished, "Is that if you want to run Dem, then we have to get into that mode, and compete. Time's short though— heck, our caucus is Saturday."

"Yes," I intoned, "Soon shall come the Primary of our turfed home: the Primary of Michigan."

Sang projected a banner Americain onto the rearmost wall of my glass and concrete dwelling. Pattonial I jetted back to forth, to and the fro before this flag, cutting, without doubt, an imposing— and, dare we to utter it as such?— Presidential figure.

"The motto of this state that has been so generous to accept the immensity of my bulk is 'If you seek, a Pleasant Penin-Sula: Look about you.' And so, my campaign staff, my Army of Fierce Political Primates, I say to you: "If you seek to preserve this Pleasant PeninSula form the WarMongering Monkey-Faced DubyaBush: Look about yourselves and Vote Squid!"

The cheers, they arose! Victoryward We Go, to Take Our State.

From today on, Michiganderos beware! I stalk the streets in my auto-gyrostabilized chromed velocitator finest, to press your flesh and to kiss with my ravening maw the babies that suckle upon your ill-governed breasts. Vote Squid for President! Vote Squid for Salvation! Vote Squid!

I Remain,
Your Giant Squid

Post Scriptorum : Sang turned off the projected Flag, the remaining staff returned to to their work in quiet columns... their energy, their exuberance... it had waned. And then I heard as Molly leaned to the Rob and spoke:

"Do you think we'll out-poll Dean?"

Rob sighed.

"Shit shit shit," he said. "Shit shit shit shit shit."

Post-Post Scriptorum: Later in the day, Bernard of the chimpanzee mechao-accountants came to give me an update on my opponents. This was the most noteworthy:

"Nous des personnes de langue française employons des testicules de John Kerry comme pastilles dans nos mouthes. Il, qui est visage est comme un cheval ne peut pas être respecté par n'importe quel Français. Chirac le sondera profondément, et le trouve vouloir."