I was wondering if maybe it would be possible, since I've been reading "A Christmas Carol," by Charles Dickens only in my copy Tiny Tim is really nearly nine feet tall and crushes his father in his freakish and bloated grip while arm-wrestling Tibetan-style where you grab your opponent without warning and wrest his arm from his body as quickly as possible with points usually awarded for cleanliness of execution and noiseless separation of tendons, and his bereaved and beleaguered family casts him out into the newly-fallen Christmas snow where he lives as a starving latch-key kid for two years on the streets of a city which resembles London in some degree, much as your swarthy beak resembles the smaller and less capable maw of a parrot, although in truth if a parrot grew to your impressive extent that parrot might have an equally fine beak, and yet would still lack your powerful eyes the size and shape of fine bone-china dinner-plates, and it is upon the hard cold ground of two Christmases that Tim, no longer generally regarded as Tiny but still known as such to avoid the confusion that would inevitably result if both him and the well-known Surrey politician, known as Mr. _____ in public but known otherwise in private, were to share the same appellation, it was here that Tim came to know his true profession as a servant to the great pederasts of the city, who would engage him for his youthful demeanor and boyish good looks, not meaning to offend your squidly sensibilities, sir, but a child does need to earn a living, and eventually Tim is hired into the house of the great Prime Minister himself, whose son Ebenezer Scrooge has an equal but different interest in the future of the young man Tim, seeing him as the ideal person to take dictation in fiction for the handsome living wage of three and six every fortnight, or two for a dollar, whichever comes first, and thus it is that the Prime Minister finds himself in search of a new boy to, well, to put it delicately, to shower with gracious affection between tea and supper, and instead the young Tim, now weighing nearly thirty stone, although possessing none of your neutral buoyancy owing to ammonium in your bloodstream, sir, Tim was quite a floater when he drifted down the dirty and wretched river which may or may not be the Thames on his days of recreation, and so Tim is placed in the ground floor of a charitable institution which remains unnamed because the previous owner of my copy pasted small pictures of a cat over every appearance of the word for reasons which are naturally quite beyond me, but didn't seem worth fretting over at the time since I was able to talk the bookseller down to fifteen for my copy, cats and all, and also the parts where a previous owner, possibly the same one, took a hole-punch and excised every noun in chapters fourteen and three, so it really was a deal as you can plainly see, Giant Squid, and it was thus that Tim spent his long days transcribing Scrooge's ramblings and assembling them into true Fiction, capital "F," not the lower-cased garden-variety fiction that causes my ears to cry with outrage, and Scrooge gained fame and notoriety for his extravagances and his small army of Fiction-makers, and for his collection of full-length chinchilla-fur coats made from fake chinchillas captured in an artificial area of Australia set aside for bank-defrauders, liars and pederasts including the great Prime Minister, and it is at this critical moment of the tale, as Scrooge is asking Tim to join him for tea that afternoon, and that Tiny Tim begins to peer into his future as you, Sir, peer into the murky depths of the oceans you inhabit seeking refuge from the torments of the mighty sperm whale and feeding upon delicate morsels that fall into your prodigious grasp, that is where my copy ends, apparently due to some mental instability on the part of a previous owner who has carefully pasted over every page with photos from their senior prom in high school where they dressed in a sky-blue dress that turned out, to everyone's mortification, to match exactly the outfit of his or her date, depending on which one of them pasted in their pictures, and thus I must humbly ask you, Giant Squid, may I borrow your copy of "A Christmas Carol," just for a moment? Or do you have the same problem?
Answer Toward Requestor: My optically-flawless architeuthic eyes can only tolerate the gentle dips and swells of French and its rich diacritical markings. As you are no Frenchman, my edition of this text is useless to you.
Love the Giant Squid? Buy his first book.
Share on Facebook
Tweet about this Piece
Poor Mojo's Tip Jar: