My family member is lying about college attended—University of Pittsburgh (BA and BS) and also says he has MBA from Duke. None of it is true. He has lied his way into a "contract" job for a mortgage company. Am I morally responsible to contact this company—with a letter—or should I call the personnel director— or should I just leave this alone? I am really torn to do the right thing. Other family members are worried, but as long as he is making money they don't care, since he has been out of work for 1-1/2 years. Other companies have found out his lies and have recanted their offers to hire him . . . I am at a loss on what to do.
Anonymous Internet Petitioner
It is difficult when so many questions arrive upon me un-signatured, with no appellate to signify writer or sender. Other advisors—the Savage Dan, for the example—often give pithy or insulting or insulty or pithing names upon their petitioners. Long here in the office—the roving office it now is, not unlike the chicken-footed hut of Baba Yaga—but more upon that later—we have given quippy names while we discussed pleas for advice. Anonymous questioners may be referred to as "Pissy Dan" or "Guy from Loserville" or "Jerky McJerks-a-lot." If it is not readily obvious, most of the pseudonyms are assigned by my lack-wit manservant, Rob. Though occasionally Molly ("just call him 'ignorant fuckpants' and let's get this over with") or Sang ("mayhaps we should refer to him as 'obvious accident of birth?") also contributes nommes de guerre.
Rob, in this very case, via the cellular telephony teleconference, demanded we call you (Gentle Readers, please be aware that the "you" in this case specifically refers to the Anonymous Internet Petitioner, not the "you" of my general InteReadership; the fourth wall collapse before my tentacled and gigantic might!) something akin to "Mr. Snitchy-Pants." And since he did best me in our last game of the Superior Brothers Mario, I ascent to his wishes, as is the tradition in our editorial offices.
So, on to your question, Mr. Snitchy-Pants.
Recently I have . . . abandoned is not the correct word—perhaps sabbaticalled from? Well, I will, on this occasion, need to settle with a lesser turn of phrase, and simply say that I have humpéd and dumpéd my duties as El Presidento, for the time being; not abandoned as a nurse shark abandons her young to the dangerous reefs that border on the vacuous surface world. No, prefer to say my duties were rather briefly vacated, temporarily. After all, if your average Americanoe is gifted nine full days of paid holidazing every annual cycle, surely I as President Supreme should also experience this National Holidaze?
And so in my absence from the Ovoid Office my chief gruntchimp of the cabinet, "Gorgeous" George Walker Texas Ranger Double-Yew Bush has assumed the duties of my office, under the watchful tutelage of my Ve-Ep, Molly. Before I was President, he was, and so it can be safe to assume that the duties will not be foreign to his tiny, ferret-like eyes. He girds his loins to battle the Stony Avatar of Abe Lincoln, to secure my presidency by proxy and install the necessary judicial zombies as I wander this land.
And wander I do.
Though I have had a small explosive device implanted behind his right ear cavity. If he attempts treason, coup d'estat, betrayal, or returns to the slovenly habit of touching himself intimately, I shall trigger the explosive. The Cabinet chimp is unaware of this device. I was going to tell him of it on his birthday, but the opportunity did not present itself. Please keep the matter to yourself (Mr. Snitchy-Pants) and yourselves (General Readership), as revelation at this late date would, in the first, be socially awkward, and in the second, possibly cause him anxieties which would negatively bear upon his work performance.
I had grown tired, complacent floating in my glass-and-concrete office. The plight of my people—the peoples Americanski—has become unknown to me, and I had feared it had become unknowable also. As if a sense I once held dear was no longer available to me, I feared I had forgotten the taste of the suffering of the under-canines. As Molly, my advisor upon topics both domestic and foreign had warned me, I had lost sight—even with mine perfect eye—of who I was conquering, liberating from the demands of needing to think for oneself or make choices, and who I needed to crush with fear to assure continued support. Also, it gives me joy and warms all but one of my hearts to help those who desire helping. It is the purpose of this very inter-web-enabled column. To right the wrongs! To balance the load? To bear the fardles! To justify the unjust!
To alleviate suffering, that is the goal I have chosen to undertake.
Suffering such as yours, Mr. Snitchy-Pants.
Your "family member" is prevaricating about experience, specifically about educational experience. And what is "experience"? Is it the scars we bear? The dreams that haunt our fevered sleep? Badges, pinned like shiny insects to an overly-large sash draped across our bio-mechanickal traveling craft? It is all of these, I dare say. As well as being memories. And education? What do we make of an education?
Is it raw facts, absorbed into the bloodstream of our souls like nutrients, enriching us and allowing us to grow? Is it indoctrination into the secretest of societies, so hidden that even those initiated into its mysteries are unaware of their membership? Unaware that they, in being educated, have joined the ranks of elitism.
Your "family member" as you mention has already been discovered in his deceit previously, and suffered gravely for it I am sure. And still lie he does. Lie like one of several dogs. Like delicious, sweet, meaty dogs.
So Mr. Snitchy-Pants it is clear that since your "family member" has neither the scars and accolades of experience, with their protective keloid armoring, nor the membership in the annals of the Well Educated, he is surely to be discovered again and again at his simpleton's ruse until such time as he is knee-cappéd by a vengeful Don, or arrested for fraudulent behavior, or embarrassed on the investigative anthropology of Jerry the Springer, and thereby learn his lesson, to the joy of many a studio audience. So, as kin to this miscreant, it falls upon you to educate your "family member" in this harshest of lesson-plans, and also enjoy the frontmost seat in his evisceration. I suggest a midnight abduction, followed by a sound beating and a solid tricky-dicked frame-up job for a series of petty larcenies, then to the Springer sound stage, and truth, she marches on.
So it is commanded, and so it shall be done; as I am wandering about the countryside actively now, I would be happy to lend a pincer, tentacle or mechanized claw, if you so desire—please feel free to contact me through this publication, so we might arrange the time, the place, of rendezvous.
Remember, Snitchy-Pants, tie the ropes tightly and avoid striking the tender joints of the body so as to avoid permanent damage. This is the key to good relations with your relations.
And soon dear readers I shall regale you with tales of my wanderings upon the countryside, but until then I remain,
the Giant Squid
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