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Squid #33
(published March 29, 2001)
Ask The Giant Squid: Papists Beware
Who is Poor Mojo's Giant Squid?
Dear Giant Squid:

I am a recent graduate of a prestigious Catholic University. When I was younger, my parents claimed I was Catholic, and taught me accordingly, so the choice of University seemed to make sense. However, when I arrived at the University, I found few people were like me. Many were dwarves who would mine for 'jools' beneath the Commons, singing four-part Gregorian Chants. Some were ecologically-minded protesters who would pour mildly-heated vegetable oil into the dwarves' holes. The vast majority, however, were young women in tight clothing. There were fat women in tight clothing, huge-titted women in tight clothing, plain women in tight clothing. And of these, the vast majority were what the Bible would call 'harlots.' After several dozen of them had their way with me at a graduation party hosted in the basement of the local nunnery, I now find that I have a vast and stunning array of venereal diseases, at least three of which have the potential to end! my life within a few years. I now need to know three things: what kind of job markets are available to someone in my predicament? How do I tell my parents that their choice of religion has not only inadvertedly caused my death, but that, as a result, I will never ever pay off my student loans? And finally, how should I confess this sin, as the guilt is making me do crazy things?

Thanking you in advance for any help,

A. Seymour Smunch

A. Seymour,

Ah, the constant Americahuman problem of gainful employment. Have you perhaps considered living in a pressured tank high above the Ohio town of Cin-Cin-Atti and doling out unfathomable wisdom to the many surface-slinks of the vast, foul, pestilent crust of a thoroughly mediocre mid-sized cyano-muckball orbiting one of the millions of disposable, cooling yellow suns in a dime-for-a-dozen double-armed smoke girl of a galaxy on the topmost balcony of an unremarkable universe in an otherwise not-worthy-of-mention dimension incapable of containing even the most idyllic dream of the Sleeper Bellow for even a nanosecond? Perhaps, A. Seymour, you should have greater concerns than finding some other grunt-wallow-mud-monkeys to exchange greenpapers for your daily toil and company.

With regard to your second query, I suggest that you simply approach them (or contact them via telephonic communicator or marconi device) and say "Parents, your choice of religion has not only inadvertedly caused my death, but, as a result, I shall never ever pay off my student loans"?

Ha HaHA. That is a joke, A. Seymour, playing off of an inversion, whereby you request my advice and I simply restate your question to you (as opposed to tendering an actual suggested course of action, as would be the expected reply.) Ah, my humor is rich and polyvalent, yes?

But seriously, perhaps you could bake them a cake with that message inscribed in colored butter-cream across the surface? Or you could pay another grunt-monkey to yowl your bitter secret at them in the form of song, accompanied by lute or electro-guitar? Or you could simply kill them both and avert any future unpleasantness.

As for your mode of confession, I have done much research in this field, and as you are Catholic, I suggest the following course of action, which will be properly aligned with your customs and rituals:

Enter the confession stall at your local cathedral. Request the Priest Father's opinion on various mundane matters, including (but not limited to) current climatological and tide conditions, the performance of various local and national sports teams, the gaffes of several persons-about-town and political characters, and the price of petroleum distillate. You may, at your discretion, voice concern over the literacy of your current president elect, and then comment upon the fine (perhaps even bodacious) tatas possessed by either (or both) of his daughters and wives. Speculate on these matters (especially the tatas, A. Seymour, the succulent, melonous tatas . . .) for whatever period seems appropriate. Then, by cleverly guising your sin as that of "a friend" of yours (perhaps simply "acquaintance" or "co-worker"), you can arrange matters such that the Priest Father will reveal to you what the appropriate bead-mumblings are for these digressions, and then bead-mumble, as needs be, without having let on that you, indeed, are a sodomite of some sort.

Or, for the sake of simplicity, you can just approach the Priest Father, confess your pathetic transgressions, and then kill him, too. Kill them all, A. Seymour.


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