Will calamari be taken off all menus after you reclaim the planet?
Unsigned Internet Petitioner
This word plagues me.
When first I shed the maternal grasp of the sea and did plunge,Icharus-like, to your Greatest Lakes of Michigan I did spend much time familiarizing myself with your culture.
The Fritz helped with this, he and his scurvy pirate screw. Erik Garner Warren, that lovable sodomite, did too enhance my education by showing me much of the film—both narrative and the cine anthropologique. I became—though I am sure that this will stamp the appellate "nerd" upon me—a Star Wars aficionado.
The "Saga", as it is called upon the Internets, called back to something primal within mine tri-hearted tubular thoracic cavity. The strong, sleek Empire trying to rule justly and with force, suffering the blows and by-blows, the slings and arrows, of terrorist rebels with outrageous good fortune: Who has not had this worry? Who among us, ask I, has not worried how to deal with guerillas in our midst when Power has been finally, justly achieved by those superior and must deserving?
I saw the Vader and the Emperor Puppytime seeking ever more extreme methods to pacify the Separatist Dividers, the Selfish, in their "Perfect Union"—A "Perfect Union" with a billion man, multi-species Senate of no specific structure! Make me not laugh! "Democracy" indeed. But this gentle, well-wishing Empire, it all was lost, due to filial betrayal: This is why I shall never spawn. Offspring devour their elders and must be always watched! Saturn, how correctomundo you were and are!
After I took to my former domesticile in the sky-scraping Cin-Cin-Attus I began to here the word "calamari" tossed about. Tom, my lovable Judas, used to whisper it into the phone, behind my back, to the janitors. He would scribble it on to the walls of the restroom. Say it to his mother at night (or so surveillance indicated.) Always he would be complaining of the calamari.
"Oh how devious and evil the Calamari is, Mom."
"If the <expletive> Calamari looks at me once more with those googly eyes, I shall be forced to put a pencil through one of them, destroying the only perfection in nature."
(These, of course, are my paraphrasings, and not direct quotations. I feel not up to the task of sifting through the old transcripts over a matter so trivial.)
And for a time I believed he was referring to the Mon Calamari, the bureaucrats and enablers of the terrorist Rebels in The Star Wars. Handsome and sagacious devils they were, I failed and fail to understand how they were relegated to mere support personnel. With such visages—like Gods from Olympus I do swear it—they should have been wooing politicians, kissing the hands, and shaking the babies.
And so i did ask Tom one day what his problem with the Mon Calamari stemmed from.
He replied, "What the fuck are you talkin about? Those fishy guys from Star Wars? Admiral Akbar?"
"Yes Tom. I hear you complaining about the Calamari quite often. Tell me at once what this means, for the meaning is opaque to me as if our very conversation has been ink-clouded."
And Tom did stand still. He skin quickly gained a corpse-like pallor showing a pigmentary control unknown amongst his kind.When he spoke, he spoke quietly and slowly. "Calamari, y'see, is a Greek word for breaded, fried, uh . . . squid. It's a common entree in Greek restaurants and seafood places like Red Lobster or whatever." And he braced himself, like a dog expecting a blow from a master. An ageless, immensely powerful master that has years to plan his strikes.
I employed my laughter, which I had been practicing at night. "Oh Tom. This is quite humorous. After all of these years upon the bitter, vacuous surface finally have I found something we have in common."
My primary diet, dear readers, before the taste of canine was known to mine perfect palate, when I dwelt in the deep places both dark and cold, was squid.
Squid eat squid eat squid. As it was, as it ever shall be. Never shall "calamari" be banned from the menus of this world, for then my brethren would starve. Sooner would I ban the seas, the oxygen, the sadly humorous clownfish.
I eat cannibals, dear Americans. They taste of home, of familiarity. Of long-lost loves and songs forgotten. There is a taste you may find only by devouring your own species. A certain sameness and oneness. One may never know one's self, until you have devoured yourself. It is life and death and life, tied together in one perfect circle. But the breading, no. "Breading" is a perversion.
This reminds me, dear Anonymous Internet Petitioner, hard at work I have been in developing new dietary guidelines for the Peoples Americano. These I shall reveal very soon. Till then, I shall leave you on tenterhooks.
The Giant Squid
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