Poor Mojo's Almanac(k) Classics (2000-2011)
| HOME | FICTION | POETRY | SQUID | RANTS | archive | masthead |
Squid #29
(published March 1, 2001)
Ask The Giant Squid: How Many Licks?
Who is Poor Mojo's Giant Squid?
Dear Mr. Giant Squid Sir,

How many licks does it take to get to the center of a Tootsie Roll Pop(TM)?

Michael the Motorcycle
Co-Founder of the "I Love 'Ask The Giant Squid' Fanclub"

Mr. Motorcycle,

Tom is holding a pistol against my brain-sac. The cylindrical barrel (often referred to as "cold" but, my dear Michael, nothing is quite so cold as the treachery of a loved one; the gun tip is not half as cold on my ragged skin as Tom's hand is, gently pressing four centimeters above my rightmost optically perfect cornea) is describing a slow circle, just below my eye.

Tom keeps referring to the area on my head-sac that he is aiming at— aiming with a Glock 9mm, I believe— as my "temple."

A temple, if this occluded and tortuous monkey dictionary is at all to be trusted is "a place of worship." Tom, then, is paying his respects.

Maybe one must challenge their God every now and again? I remember when I was just a mere twelve meters long, barely a mote in mine father's eye, and I challenged him to a death struggle. He had seemed so small, so crushed by the black pressures of the deep. I knew in my heart that I could defeat him and feast upon his entrails, but to do so would also mean a loss of my own innocence.

Innocence has it's lexical roots in your ancient Greek tongue. In a strictly technical manner, it means "without noxious markings."

There is a scar I have that runs up along the right flank of my sac, from beak to eye. This is my noxious marking.

My father was nearly a century older than I, he may not have been as strong— long days spent in bureaucracy, pushing paper to fight the Great Ray War had atrophied his strength— but he had wit still.

As I came towards him, tentacles splayed in the K'Crant Web pose favored by dilettantes and doctor's sons, my father raked me across my rightmost flank with a sharp piece of coral that he had hidden in his beak. My blood filled the waters, and nearby sharks began to lose control. If I had not foreseen my physical failure, I would have been lost, but as it was I knew that I would not be able to best mien papa. But the French could.

I had forged pacts with a team of French divers, and when I made my clumsy, inebriated lunge they harpooned my father and carried him off to the surface to watch his blood boil in the burning outer space above the waters and to feast upon his tender sac.

Sadness crept in like an especially turbulent tide for the next decade, when ever I thought of what I had done. I had killed my father, my God. There were no more checks on my behavior, and I spent a brief six years as an Architeuthian hooligan. I ran with an especially nasty pack of manatees and cuttlefish. I washed away my sorrow with the blood of sailors and porpoises.

Forgive me, this is hard to talk about. I'm swimming around the point.

Even though I sold my father to the French (damn you, Cousteau), I still missed him. But even though I missed him, I did not regret selling him up the sea.

My father knew it was coming, there was resignation on his face. He did the noble thing, only scarring me to let me know he was proud of my actions.

If I could be so selfless, I would. If I could summon such a depth of feeling to course through my axons, I would. But even if I did, it would not help Tom. His Glock will never fire under water— the cartridges are wet. A harpoon gun would have worked, as would a number of poisons. Electricity? Perhaps. Or, even just the slow and subtle depressurization of my tank. Why is it that they always send a man to do a mollusk's job? Hear me now: I will never relinquish my glass and concrete throne to one so clearly inbred and cretinous.

The squid lives! Long live Architeuthis Architeuthis!

And, in answer to your question:

I have a caramel allergy, and cannot partake of the Tootsie-Roll. I have polled my lab assistants in an effort to provide you with a semblance of an answer. Vito said, "I just kinda chew on them." Song said, "My mother never let me have those." James #4 said "It takes approximately three and one half hours for the natural acidity of my mouth to dissolve through the hard candy sucker-coating to the chewy center. I've run tests." Tom said nothing. These days, Tom always says nothing.

Best of luck,

Got a Question? Contact the Giant Squid
or check the Squid FAQ

Love the Giant Squid? Buy his first book.

Share on Facebook
Tweet about this Piece

see other pieces by this author | Who is Poor Mojo's Giant Squid? Read his blog posts and enjoy his anthem (and the post-ironic mid-1990s Japanese cover of same)

Poor Mojo's Tip Jar:

The Next Squid piece (from Issue #30):

Ask The Giant Squid: My Brain is Huge!

The Last few Squid pieces (from Issues #28 thru #24):

Ask the Giant Squid: Threats from an Imprisoned Theme Park Attraction.

Ask the Giant Squid: Fried Human Scalps and Treasonous Offerings . . . These Are a Few of My Favorite Things.

Ask the Giant Squid: Love (and Frenchmen) Be Not Proud

Ask the Giant Squid: Was Man Made to Suffer?

Ask the Giant Squid: The Occasional Hells of Ohio

Squid Archives

Contact Us

Copyright (c) 2000, 2004, David Erik Nelson, Fritz Swanson, Morgan Johnson

More Copyright Info