The notion percolated up forcefully into my conscious mind, not unlike the blood and sweet-meats that erupt from a punctured diver's lungs while snug in the crushing embrace of the benthic deep: At first all was blackness and silence— I alone in my glass and steel enclosure high above Detroit, the City by the Straights— mine mind most furious pondering the backside of my most able janitorial, laboratorial assistant, Rob, and then, SKERPLASH!, across the screen of my mind a notion fine and savage.
A sporting event on the televisual screen had been resolved in Rob's favor, and thus to the detriment of one who foolishly entered into a wager over said sporting event with the cunning, filthy Rob. Upon the completion of the event, Rob leapt into the air and gave a mighty woop!, betelling his membership in the class of mammals.
Forcefully I was made to recall the Woop of the Sperm Whale, a mighty blast of sound that sends shivers down to the tips of my tentacles. Anger rose in my blood, and I wished to do great harm to Rob. My hunter tentacle was a mere centimeter away from activating the Mammalian Failsafe (on which, more later) when Rob did, what I was later to know as, The Heinie Dance.
Bent over double, elbows splayed from his bony meatsack torso, Rob shuffled backwards slowly while rhythmically shaking his posterior, his rumpus, back and forth. He performed this dance for an eon, a lifetime. Five minutes crept by, then ten. And to your flitting mayfly brains five minutes may pass in a snap, but to one as massive, timeless and quick-witted as I, this is an interminable span of time; an interminable span of time watching my proto-monkey assistant shake his ass-thang.
The terror, so strange.
"Rob!" I cried. "What is that you are doing? Do you harken to your queen!"
My cry frightened young Rob and he had occasion to topple upon hisself.
"Shit, Lord A. Don't do that. You damn near scared the funk out of me." Rob stood, straightened himself, then again bent double and began his curious bee-like motions. "But you didn't! I still gots my funk! Check that shit out! Unh! Yeah!" a clap of the handparts, "In the street! Unh! I gots you beat! Yeah!"
"Rob! Rob. What are you doing! Explain yourself to me at once, or shall I resort to the Pinch of a Thousand Claws?"
"Ah shit, Lord A. Why ya gotta be such a buzzkill? I just won five hundred bucks on the game. And now," More hunkered over flailing motions were made, "I gotta do my Heinie Dance of Victory."
"To inform your queen of the success?" I admit, the notion was quite attractive to me: a heretofore unexplored matriarchal, apiastic bent to the stain to civilized discourse which is human society.
But Rob did immediately deflate my tumescing expectations viz. the dance communication of the Man Bee, and went on to explain then unto me that it was a great and noble tradition of victors to do this Heinie Victory Dance. At once I was enamored of the idea. Though it seemed less impressive than back in my home, where upon a political victory one devours the hearts and spleen-sac of thy opponent.
"So I may not devour the spleen-sac and heart of the George-Bush and the John-KerryHeinzKetchup? This angers me Rob. Angers and saddens me. I had so looked forward to feasting upon the entrails of my engorged enemies."
"Naw. Lord A., you can't do that shit. Like, the Secret Service would stop you first. Besides, it's, you know, not sportsmanlike. Gotta be a gentleman and shit."
"But I am no man, Rob," I astutely observed.
Rob thought upon this for many moments, "Well," he ventured, "Then you'll have to be a gentle-whateverthehell you are, and you'll have to be satisfied with a big 35-ton bootie shake at them."
And so we practiced. For hours and hours we practiced. I shook of my body sac both front and back, side to side, until such time that it was of certainty that I had well mastered, nigh unto incarnated, the victory funk. I learned many variations: the 'crazy knees,' the 'Spiking-of-the-ball', which curiously involves no spike nor ball, and also the aptly named 'backflip.'
Intoxicated by thoughts of my impending electoral victory, Rob showed me a final and auspicious gesture. He stood with his tiny legs together, arms outstretched like the antlers of one of your land-walking, fur bearing beavers, and he made to spread of his tiny armlette fingers into a pair of bifurcated masses, not unlike the divide in roads of the more and less travelled.
"This shit here is called the 'V for Victory.' It was, like, pioneered by 'Tricky' Dick Nixon. He was the prez who, like, signed the surrender in China that ended Vietnam. He croaked when I was in middle school."
Little of that made sense, but I gathered it was less the time to explore the wending paths of the careers of my presidential forebearers, and more the time to master these gestures most important. For a long hour I practiced this gesture, which is difficult for one who lacks thumbs. Rob's taunts to this effect were brutal and beneath him. Let us not reflect upon that further.
"Rob. This Tricky-Dicked Nixon that you spoke of. You did make the air-quotes with your fingers when you spoke his name. Am I to gather that 'Tricky-Dicked' was a pseudonym? A nom de guerre?"
"Yeah, it was his nickname."
"Because he was a master cocksman, Rob?"
"Yeah. Wait. What? Shit, no!"
"As are featured in the anatomical films and websites you so enjoy? A master cocksman, laying down both pipe and the law, swinging for both teams with his bolognese bat, endowed by his creator with a certain inalienable ramrod that—
"No, shit! Shut up with that shit. 'Tricky Dick' Nixon got his name 'cause he was a tricky mutherfucker, and his name was fuckin' Richard."
"His name was Fucking Richard, he fucked mothers with a variety of gambits and he was not the master cocksman? I find this hard to believe. You, I think, are pulling of my tentacles, Rob. Perhaps you want to see how good a cocksman I am, eh?"
"Fuck. Dick is slang for Richard, which was his proper name. That his parents gave him, Lord A. Parents he didn't ever fuck. And he was called Tricky cause he had all these people pull dirty tricks to get him elected."
A beat passed. Then another. The kitty kat clock of the wall did tick and tock, her eyes scanning left to right, side to side. I had been drunk with the Heinie Dance, but now sobriety gripped my gall-sac. "Rob. In all of our talk of election strategy, why has this not been mentioned?"
"Uh." Rob turned even paler than he typically appeared, showing an almost Architeuthian ability to communicatively control and alter his hue. "'Cause he was like evil. And a monster, and probably the worst president ever, 'cept for Bush."
"Rob. Get the historicological books immediately. I desire to emulate this Nix-On. He won through the dirty tricks, and so shall I. And whence I squat upon the throne of power in my Imperial Tank-chamber, they shall know me as the Tricky-Dicked!"
And so read I did, of the Water-Gate and of the Plumbers. This Nix-On and I had much in the way of commonalty. Both of us are powerful, we share a love of water (gaze upon the names of his operations and tell me that Nix-On did not have an affinity for water), and desire to rule at any cost.
Nix-On had his plumbers and his G-Gord-On. So shall I have my team of ruthless vote-riggers and baby-kissers. I beckoned Sang to me, and demanded of him a list of our personnel who were available and currently unassigned.
One name came up as being available for assignment: Morgan Johnson. I was familiar with his work, he had been a dutiful servant in the past and had demonstrated a certain moral flexibility that was most agreeable to my palate and mission statement. The MoJo himself, to serve in my Presidential Coupe. In many ways, the honor, she was all mine.
But, if one Morgan Johnson is good, surely six Morgan Johnsons would be even better.
An assignment was put forward: Morgan Johnson Prime was sent forth to hire more Morgan Johnson's for my Tricky-Dicked crew of Plumbers and Character Assassins.
Here are his the reports he compiled:
Morgan Johnson #2.So you see, dear readers, a crack squad has been assembled. Our Dicks are about to get Tricky. The subterfuge and espionage has begun in earnest. Their campaigns have gone dirty, but they have little gazed upon dirty until they have gazed upon Morgan Johnsonian Squid Dirty, which is itself downright filthy in the extreme. I shall ink them where they live, I shall ink them where they sleep. The mud will be hurled with force, accuracy aim and vigor, into the smiling maws of our enemies. They will choke upon it, it will rot in their mouths like ashes. And I shall do a grand Heinie Dance over the bodies of the slain.
G.S., This Morgan Johnson used to work for the Empire, hunting down rebels and shit. Read his site for a list of his badass skills: Judo, Parachuting, Weapon Skills. If you get yourself in a tight situation, and the chips are down, call this Morgan Johnson, not me, for the blood vengeance and the military know-how. This guy will totally be the core of our team, the B.A. to my Hannibal. (That's not a race-thing, by the way. Just he's got the skills. If the Onion headed whiteguy had bolt-cutters and shit, he'd be the B.A.)
This Morgan Johnson draws a fucked up webcomic. He may be on some sort of anti-psychotic medication. When I contacted him about joining the team, he told me that his 'berserker rage' would be channeled to our cause. Vote squid.
This Morgan Johnson is all about the art. She's a painter, and teaches kids. When I form the Dirty Tricks Squad, with the crazy comic book guy and the badass Stormtrooper, this chick will be like our mentor/psychic figure. Like Doc Xavier without the funky floating wheelchair.
We'll be all "but this makes no sense. The clues just don't add up!" and she'll be like, "Well, that's cause you need a Cubist perspective, bitch." And then she'll solve the crime and we'll all buy doughnuts and cruise around in the MojoMobile.
This Morgan Johnson could lead a crack team of baby commandoes that right wrongs and punish the evil. They would be perfect for surveillance and espionage, cause no one would ever expect the baby, y'know? She already has a dedicated crew with her at the nursery. Her comrades include: Ashley, the knife specialist; Kayleigh, the martial arts master; and little Pierce Corbo, who is just crazy and fearless and perfect for the inevitable kamikaze mission.
Morgan Johnson #6.
This guy is a fucking expert. Just check out his site, Lord A. I hereby withdraw my request to lead this group, as I have fuck-all on the ball compared to this guy. I guess I'll drive the van and order the pizzas.
Until next time dear Stinkchimp reader: Vote Early, Vote Often, Vote Squid!
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