Dear Giant Squid,

Your picture indicates that you appear to be an ordinary cuttlefish, not at all a giant squid, as you claim to be.

Whom do you think you're fooling? From what megalomaniac delusions of grandeur are you suffering?

Sincerely,
The Pedantic Marine Biologist

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Dear Pedantic Marine Biologist,

At the office where you work — surrounded by benumbed observers of the seas, staring from the surface of your air-filled void and peering down into the briny depths at my once-called home — do you have photos on your desk? Is the desktop of your computer — undoubtedly a PC running the Windows — a large picture of you, smiling forth?

Judging from your terribly clever question, I imagine it must be the case. Clearly the image forming the desktop of your computer's display must be of you, bright and smiling upon the shore of the ocean, gazing longingly at the cold embrace of the Deep. Or perhaps you stand making of the my-thumb-is-up gesture, a self-contained underwater breathing apparatus on your back preparatory to your slow descent into the seas — hoping to reach the staggering depth of twenty feet afore fear sends you shooting, like a cowardly cork, surfaceward.

No doubt that the surface of your physical, literal desk is crowded with framed images of yourself — holding high your diploma-of-questionable-provenance; frowning contemplatively as you ask terribly clever questions; waving as you man the drive-thru-food-delivery-window; grimacing as you are penetrated by an ardent musk-ox, your Nepalese guide smiling broadly and waving in the foreground; winking as you lap semen from the concavities of corrupted corpses of ancient Incan potentates — while the monitor of your computer and walls of your tawdry little cubicle are festooned with still further little momentos mios: the receipt from your most recent fecal occult blood tests; used scraps of facial tissue; and picture postcards displaying images of your mother being penetrated by a violent musk-ox with that selfsame Nepalese guide smiling and waving of his hands in the pictures foreground.

Such, I must surmise, is clearly the narcissistic nature of the decor of your workspace. But, if you will permit me to enlighten, it seems that not all workers deem it fit to look upon a thousand fractured reproductions of their own image while within their workspace.

To wit, I have performed a thorough survey of my office using a "web-cam," many feet of ethernet cabling, and my deft assistant and scribe, Jarwaun. We have built a shoulder rig for him and atop that rig sits my roving camera eye, like an implacable and silent parrot aboard the pirate's mien. Jarwaun has roamed pirate-like across the office, noting all objects on the desks of those in my employ.

• Rob's Desk: A calendar displaying nearly-nude women firefighters, breasts on display. How do they fight fires when they are so clearly ill-garbed for it? Bravery must be the answer, and fortitude. This is why Rob features this calendar: such bravery, and such breasts. There is also a picture of Suveer drinking a beer, a picture of his parents proffering a trout, and also one depiction of Rob and I, he perched atop the dome of my velocitational unit.

• Molly's Desk: A "word per day calendar" says that sidereal means "of or pertaining to the stars." I concur. Also on her desk is a framed certificate of some sort, A coffee mug bearing the presidential seal, a SpongeBob Squared-Pants figurine, a lamp made from a conch shell, postcards taped image-side out so that one may not read who they are from — especially when one has a cowardly assistant who refuses to disturb the items taped to walls or to open desk drawers when the owners of said desk are absent. There are no photos.

• Sang's abandoned desk: Has no adornments. There is a book that has been be-locked by a brass lock, but none dare approach it.

• Erik Garner Warren's desk: is musty. Ill-used. He is always on assignment, but still insists on having a desk. There is a calendar from 2005 that shows Slaughterhouses of the Mid West. Jarwaun refuses to turn the page so that I may see what June looks like. There are photos aplenty, too many to describe. From them we can see Mr. Warren "chilling out" in Thailand with a triad of boyish young girls — or, perhaps, girlish young boys. His tastes, they are unfathomable. In other photogprahs we observe him playing of the poker in the backrooms of St. Louis, fighting a forest fire in Minnesota with the assistance of a hated bear, igniting a forest fire in Colorado in the company of a trio of hobos, fishing off an icey shelf with an Inuit man, lounging on a Kauaian beach with a wahine, et cetera.

• The Giant Squid's desk: Sparse. Utilitarian. Various note-taking devices designed for use in heavy-pressure environs float on short tethers. A mug with a presidential seal hangs on a hook. There is a photo of a lone cuttlefish. This cuttlefish, you see Mr. Pedantic and Cowardly Marine Biologist, is my adopted son or daughter. For just one dollar per day — which, I note, is less than the price of a cup of coffee — I am able to provide little Doon-Sek with regular meals of rice and fetal stem-cells, a quality Dora the Exploradora bookbag for in which to transport his materials to school, and scores of tiny shoes that he might use in craft projects. In return, he does write to me regular updates of his progress, and did send his photo, so that I might look upon his visage and selflessly reflect upon my own vast and magnanimous generosity. That is why I have his photo on such display.

I do shake my headsac, now, so disappointed am I at your self-regard, your presumptuous assumptions and your callow gall. As such, it does occur to me that it would be much appropriate to extend toward you my magnanimity.

Looking upon Doon-Sek's adorable, appreciative smile, I reflect "Doon-Sek would want me to forgive this awful, awful man."

And I believe that is true. And yet, I forgive not.

You, Mr. Marine Biologist, are on my list.

I Remain,
The Giant Squid