One-thousand-and-one apologies sincere for my delinquency in addressing many— nigh, most— of the re-question as of late applied toward my attention. What with taking the helm of this, our fair Ship of State, I have had my time-of-leisure greatly limited, and so many of my non-presidential projects have borne the brunt of this terrible toll. Over the next several weeks, I will endeavor to repair these damages, and dig out from under the great deluge of mail electronique in which I currently flounder.
Sorting through my inbox in detail, I discovered— much to both my delight and chagrin— that there was a great deal of redundancy in that which I am asked. Delight, as this would limit the amount of work I need do, but chagrin in that this redundancy does make it most clear that the F.A.Qs I have prepared previously are far from heeded. Sigh. You are a vexem people, my Americaneroes. Fortunately, these FAQs, having been prepared early in my second year of publication, in the year 2001, soon after my move to Detroit, are somewhat outdated, and so probably a new FAQ is deserved at this time. You, my dears, narrowly escape a most fearsome punishment for your lack of care and concern.
Upon detailed inspection, it was found that some 43% of the questions asked are highly repetitive in nature, and primarily concern four broad topics: my physiognomy (which accounts for 35% of the redundant questions); my lifestyle, specifically habitats and haunts (42% of the redundancy); general information regarding me and mine (21%); and questions about yourself and, specifically, your own mortality (2%). Truly of most interest was the fact that the clear majority of these questions— although submitted during my extended stint as an advice columnist, and to a lesser degree, during this early stage of my presidency— are not requests about yourselves, but questions about me and my nature. You are indeed an extroverted and altruistic people, which is quaint and admirable, though nonetheless pitiable and weak.
But, to the Frequently Asked Questions, and thus the FAQ to End All FAQs:
These questions primarily concerned themselves with my size (18% of the redundants— 4% specifically regarding my mighty and encompassing brain), my longevity (4%), my generally anatomy (9%) and my color (4%.)
Questions of size included:
As for my brain, she is large and shapely and voluminous— specifically, 353.4 liters.
The question of my longevity (accounting for 4% of the redundancy)— which differs greatly from general squid longevity— is similarly addressed in FAQ the Fourth, this time in the fourth part. My previous estimate was 40 times 96 years, although this may be somewhat inaccurate owing to the change for Julian to Gregorian calenders in 1582, and lies, and misapprehensions (mine and other's.)
Certainly, yesterday was not the day upon which I struggled from the egg sack. And I have never been near a cart of turnips.
Of the remaining physiognomic questions, there were those of my coloration (Americans, always so obsessed with the color of the skin; but is it not the colors of the inside— the viscera and intergumenary membranes and the supple pink soul— which truly matter?)— accounting for some 4% of the total redundancy. and full addressed in section the second of FAQ the First, and those of the general anatomy (9% of the redundancy.) These were more varied, such as:
These first two are addressed, obviously by now (one hopes) in sections one and two, respectively, of FAQ the First. As for the rest: I am neither fish nor mammal— which are both vertebrates— but rather an invertebrate (that is, without spine, which is far from being spineless, you craven Republicrats who wish to smear my campaign!) cephalopod of the phylum mollusca. I swim backworse and forbetter. My weight is yet to be ascertained (I did put on the paunch during the electoral stresses— not unlike the LBJ.) I have many special adaptations for life underwater— such as being gigantic, swift, patient, huge-eyed and sagacious. These also serve me well within this Belt Way of Washingtonia Deca. As for my life cycle, thus far it has been: birth, shadowy past, surface-rise, hired on to serve as advicing columnist on the Poor Mojo's Almanac(k), travels about this Big America, acquiring citizenship, running for public office, world domination, and dominion over death (these final two items are somewhat the result of projection and prediction on my part.)
Of the lifestyle questions (representing 42% of the redundancy), 11% were relating to my eating habits (a matter discussed ad nauseum, in general, in my columns, and at some little length in the first part of FAQ the Fourth. 12% were reproductive in nature (a matter discussed in FAQ the Third, sections two and, after a manner, three), and of these 5% were concerned of my sexual orientation (I initially took these— questions of the nature of Is the giant squid gay?— to be investigations of my general or occasional joviality, but my assistant Rob did set me the straight, so as to speak) and 2% are apparent forays into sexually propositioning me. As the United States President and thus a Monolith of Moral Rigor— and acknowledging rigor to be a sort of stiffness— I do quoth my Rob in saying "Not tonight, baby; Papa has got a heap of the worries and a headsac ache."
Likewise, 11% of the redundant frequently asked questions did concern themselves with my home and local. To wit:
I once addressed this quite fully in FAQ the Second, part the second, but matters have changed quite a bit in the intervening years. In the beginning I lived with my mil numerous moteish brothers and sisters alongside a pacific heat-venting tectonic trench. Later, I palled about the benthic deep with my brother, then was much alone for a long interval. I have befriended Plutarch and Rock the Hudson and Howard Hughes, and also made many the enemies. I have loved Francois Miterand, and the ladies, the many ladies, and a squidly goddess named of Martha— yet never have I truly co-habitated. I was in Cin-cin-atti for some several years, in a tank in a skyscrapping structure, then moved about this nation fair for some interval of months in a souped-upped Cadillac Escalade. I was then with Tom and Lisa, and battled the stony avatar of that sinister liberator, Abram Lincoln. Then I was to Detroit, where I occupied a somewhat roomier tank with a much improved view, this of Canada and the intervening Straights of the Detroit River. That tank also had a fine, large rock and several very enjoyable auto bodies for which to manipulate with my powerful tentacles and arms. Now I divide my time between my Centre della Renaissance in Motor Town and the Presidential Palace in Washingtonia Deca— with, admittedly, the lions share going to the Palace White. There, I spend the greater time in a newly sealed, wired and water-filled Oval Office, in which I enjoy racing about the edge, whirling my waters into a great vortex which causes my oaken table to twirl about like a gandy dancer, my portraits of Jackson, Johnsons and those Siamesse Adamses to flip and fillip, and makes my many flags a-flutter.
As for catching me, please to make an appointment with my press secretary, Rob Miller, via the cellular telephone. Catch me if you can!
Or, I may be reached via postal mail at:
The White House
1600 Pennsylvania Avenue NW
Washington, DC 20500
Finally, in this section on my lifestyle, I also group questions regarding my defenses and enemies. These include:
Having believed the ilk of these questions sufficiently answered in the third part of FAQ the Second and the first part of FAQ the Third, with some carried-over to the first section of FAQ the Fourth, now reflecting upon the last two of the above variations on these question, I wish to amend and addend that any and all who seek to study my dead corpus or prepare me to serve at the dinning table are indeed my enemies. Also, since 2001, my defenses have expanded beyond the use of stinging, obscuring ink, tearing beak, razored suckers, rending tentacles and battering arms, and also now include the Weapons of Massive Destruction with which my Office is Most Blessed. Suckas step not to the squid packing heats!
A diverse bulk (some 21%)of the generally tiresome questions asked me were requests for very general information and pictures. Taking forms such as:
Those in search of information squididial— pictures and photography and communiques— look about you! The Googlosphere is rife with the informative, as is my own Almanac(k), via which I communicate with you, my people, weekly! Are there live pictures of me? What in my glory is a "live picture"? A living picture? Like something coaxed across the skin of a lesser squid via threats and electrodes? Or do you mean the moving and moveful pictures of the televisor and filmic theaters? Certainly! The squid featured there-in may well be a failure in his mission, but he is certainly a photogenic sort— and uncredited! Such the pity!
Is the colossal squid true? Is he numerous? No, he is false and phoney and back-the-stabbing; he is faithless and callow and weak and spongy and unable to maintain erection of posture. he is a poor friend and poor sport and well worthy of your thorough avoidance. He is an untrustworthy loner. He smells of the strange. He is foul.
As for you with your many projects, scholarly and literally: do your own researches and leave me be! Would you annoy George Washington, asking him to do for you your Algebras?
In all likelihood you would, despite George's sharpened cannibal teeth and notable ignorance in the ars mathematica. Truly, we are a confederacy of dunces, volken americanum; what is to be done for us? What is to be done to us?
The final, popular and highly repetitive question type (forming 2% of the redundant and unnecessary 43% of that which I am asked) concerned the very mortality of the querier itself:
Oh, my dearest, it is most certain. (See also FAQ part the Fifth, parts seventh and eighth.)
Your Archetuethis dux
Your Giant Squid
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Copyright (c) 2000, 2004, David Erik Nelson, Fritz Swanson, Morgan Johnson