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Squid #277
(published May 4, 2006)
Notes from the Giant Squid: Tricks Most Crude and Craven
Who is Poor Mojo's Giant Squid?
Dearest Readers,

Hazel and I are desperate for the monies both papiere and digitalis. We have many things to say upon this subject, few of them markedly pleasant.

As is the case with many of our disputes, this did occur in the yard of her mobile domicile, here in the Mobile Trailering Park. In our case, it is the small size and flagrantly lax engineering and fabrication of her "trailer," which mandates that we argue in the dirt of the yard. Curiously, many of our neighbors similarly elect to discuss and dispute points, issue hollered edicts, apply tear apologia and enter into drunken defences, pleas and bargains standing in their dirt-some yards, despite the fact that they might both fit within the confines of their mobile home sweet home together, simultaneously, without risking total structural collapse.

It is the mode if the locale, one must suppose.

And, as is also the local mode, many of our disputatious conversations do begin with the arrival of the postal mail, and the odious bills it does communicate, so much like the darling, bubonicious fleas riding on the backs of medieval European rats. These papers Hazel does sort through finger-fretfully, heaving her breasts sighfully and slouching of the bone-shoulders. This sighish pectoral heaving slumpedness is a constant, sussurating off-minor melody through the symphony of our co-dwelling bliss. As we are required to render payment in currency for our domicile on the month's first, it should be of little surprise that, on this last Monday past, this minor theme burst forth into taking center stage, a loathsome and discordant oboe solo searing into an otherwise concerted and euphonious composition.

Returning from the land-holding ladies home, Hazel began afore she had even completed crossing the crumbling tarmac which loops through our Shady of the Pines Mobile Conveyance Living Park.

"Hon," she did intone, "Most of what I make goes to pay our rent—"

"A noble end," I noted, hoping to placate her afore the tirade might take hold.

"But, you know, between your geeky D&D buddies comin' over whenever and your creepy-hairy French buddies, comin' over and stickin' their heads in the cupboards, we've got no food ever. I come home, and there isn't a beer or Doritos™ or salsa—there's nothin'." Her arms were crossed but shoulders back, hands buried in pits-of-the-arms, and a glower creasing your face's eyes. She tapped her foot. "I'm gone all day, and you don't even clean up around the place—"

"I cannot fit within your place!"

"You could clean the yard!" she shouted, thrusting her arms down, fists clenched at her thighs, and stomping forward three steps. Perhaps it is hard to credit, Dear Readers, but I do swear to all Above and Below that there was a palpable and tangible heat pouring off of her, such that it raised the gross temperature of the waters of my velocitator's anti-bathospheric tank by .48 degrees Celsius. By my calculations, this glance did approach nearly 1,000 Calories.

I looked about. The yard, clearly, was a shambles. It was my turn to slump and slouch sighingly.

"You've gotta start puttin' in on the expenses. You've gotta work."

"I had work, but was deposed."

"Ya gotta stop mopin' around and get back on the horse—"


"—ya haven't even followed-up on a single one-a them interviews you had!"

I turned away, crossing my hunting tentacles before me, "I have no time for this; there is my Almanac(k) to run, and my column there-in to think of and—" and she stomped past me, slamming through our mobile home's mobile screened door, and returning afore the slam could rebound, crumple-clutching a paper within her clever paw.

"Is your precious little column so important? Then here," she threw at me the balled paper, "Here's some words. Put 'em in your damn stupid little blog and earn your keep!"

I did pincer and lift the paper, gingerly flattening it to readability with my delicate, razored claws.

"Why these words? What is this list?" I asked, all the curiosity. Her anger had subsided, and she stood before me, strangely blanched, arms again crossed, but now her shoulders folded in. She was small, and the knobbed bones of her shoulders and slim lines of her clavicles stood out clearly against the thin, bedazzled fabric of her tiny t-shirt. She looked birdlike and small and, somehow, trapped.

"Just . . just because . . . This is a list of words I like, is all" she said, looking low and away, her mouth a thin, equivocal line, "I like these words and want you to use them in your next column." I looked down to the list, printed from somewhere out in the Great Blue World Wide Interweb, and when I looked back, she was looking to me again, looking deep into my optically perfect eye, "Your column is important . . . important for everyone to see, and I want you to be able to do it and get it done. And I want you to use those words, OK, Sweetie-honey?"

And so I assented.

Let me first tell you about all of the Chicago Personal Injury Lawyers and Attorneys that I find most palatable. It is my personal opinion that Derek Montaud™ of the southernemost most side of the Chicago is the most delicious. His fatty buttocks can be carved and fried in numerous ways. Also, JoNathon Stern™ has a supple, rotund belly which can be nuzzled as he screams, and then torn bloodily by any discerning beak.

Next, let me tell you of the mesothelioma lawyers that I find delicious.

There are none.

Finally, let me tell you about the how you might acquire a "whole life insurance quote." First, you are to ask me about it, and then I will submit to you this statement: "One must insure that one lives a whole life, otherwise one will have died prematurely." And upon that you may quote reliably.

Also, there is the issue of the nature of mesothelioma. What is mesothelioma? Apparently creatures with lungs, such as yourself, can be adversely affected by inhaling certain substances. One of those substances is asbestos. When you have worked in a circumstance (not unlike mine own lab in the Oh-Hi-Oh Landscape of Cin-Cin-Natty) where there is an egregious amount of decaying asbestos™ (I am so sorry, Devo) one is likely to inhale of the particles and develop a certain kind of lung cancer, called Mesothelioma™.

If you are a victim of such an adverse situation, you might contact a personal injury attorney, perhaps one in Atlanta, or in New Jersey, or in New York City, and they may be able to help you participate in one of the many asbestos-related liability lawsuits.

Also, in such a circumstance, you should be thankful if you have whole life insurance. And that you have the very best of equity loans. And that you are feasting on the flesh of a delicious personal injury attorney.

If you are incapable of hunting down and besting in mortal combat any of the personal injury attorneys in your nearest major metropolitan arenas, may I suggest that the problem is perhaps due to your less-than-optically-perfect eye. In such circumstances I recommend that all of my chimp companions receive the Lasik™ surgery, either in Dallas or at the Vision Center (and if at all possible, in both locations simultaneously.)

If, instead, you are bested in the combat and, rather than dying your noble and approved death you instead are merely severely disfigured, I suggest that you seek out the surgery plastíque, preferably in the Beverly Hills of Billy.

Finally, let me admonish you with these words: "Laser eye surgery New York."

This column having satisfied her word-tastes, Hazel now says I may rest.

Goodnight, dear friends. Goodnight.

I Remain,
Your Giant Squid

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