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Squid #357
(published November 22, 2007)
Ask the Giant Squid: Showing the Love
Who is Poor Mojo's Giant Squid?
Dear Giant Squid,

What are some of the signs that shows she loves me?

Lost on Love

Dear Lovehunter,

On this chilly and forlorn Thanksgiving morn, I wonder much on this topic.

"Lord A., dude; you gotta check this out."

Being magnanimous to a fault, as is often noted, I have given my lab workers a day of unpaid respite from their labors. Jarwaun and Trael, who might well have come here nonetheless, to socialize and look upon the Internets at high speed and without parental monitoring, were journeying far and wide to the Atlantic State of Georgie with their "Pops", for to sup on their paternal grandmothers fine cooking, as is the tradition in their small, honest clan.

"Dude, dude! You're totally missing it; there's, like, some crazy-fucked up cross-breeze catching the big balloons, and it totally looks like a the Nutcracker is fucking Bart Simpson in the ass!"

My occasional lab assistant, Rob, had nonetheless insisted on coming in, largely to sit next to my tank at the wide plate-glass windows facing into the city and gape upon their trifling, pitiful parade — an event of such little note that I would have found no reason to mention it at all, save for his presence, and instead elected to spend my morning refusing to even deign to consider to look upon its lackluster primpery, and thus positioned myself in a curled lump at the back of my tank, where I might skulk in relative peace and gaze across Detroit's "River" to the soothing skyline of Canada's Gambling Jewel, the City of Windsor.

Rob pressed his ear to the glass. "You know, you can sorta-kinda hear the marching bands . . . think we could turn on some of the cosmo-spectral monitoring thingies, and, like, tune 'em down so we could hear this over the PA? 'cause . . . "

Rob prattles on, but I consider your query, LoL, as a matter serious. Oftimes, in the past, I have advised that it can be tres dificil for one to find the courage to make clear to another — even a best beloved — that the other is valued, and to what degree. Truly, it is among the most difficult tasks, to begin to assess what our most dear and most near even mean to us, a task like and unto the fish contemplating the ubiquitous water. Thus, I have "cut of the slack" most often, and advised in these cases patience and faith in the truth of the feelings of that quiet partner.

I advise that no more. Love, she should be concrete, quantifiable, and blatantly demonstrated. If she makes the sexual advances upon you in the fast-food bathroom, supping full of your throbbing and voluminous seed, that is love. If she sits across the table's expanse, smiling politely as she masticates her ground cow pieces, love is not present. If she gives unto you a medal based upon your virtue, then she does love. If she does not, then she does not. If she perhaps organizes a parade in your honor, with both the pomp and the circumstance, the confettis and the ticker's tape, then it is love. If she does nothing . . . well, know we not that nothing comes of, and only of, nothing? Indeed, we know that of nothing; that is our nothing knowledge.

"Lord A., dude, you're muttering again, and you're totally ignoring me, and you're totally, like, moping around back there. Is this about the float?"

Yes, it was, and I said as much. Understand, LoL, I have asked little of the people to whom I advise, that great and unwashed mass. Was it, then, too much to expect that they might create in my image a giant, helium-filled balloon, to spread joy and terror in their Holy Day streets, and thus in some small way demonstrate their Thanks for my continual Giving? Is that too great a thing to expect? Too much of an effort for this fickle city to extend to such a citizen as I, who have—

"Lord A., c'mon, you're being a total little bitch on this."


"All I'm saying is that maybe you're being a little too wrapped up in the Thanksgetting, and not enough in the Thanksgiving. Tis the season to go over the river and through the woods, and all that shit, you know what I mean?"

"YOU ARE SUGGESTING WE LAUNCH AN ASSAULT UPON PLEASANT WINDSOR, ONTARIO?" I perked much at the notion of loosing coiled intestines from gutsacks, and basking in the blood-steam of foes fallen on an icy field.

"Not so much. I'm saying that the thing we get is questions, and the thing we give is, like, advice and Joy and world peace and shit. So, yeah, your face isn't on a coin and there is no helium-filled rubber you floating down Woodward, and no one even remembers you were President — that isn't what we're in it for. We're in it for the people — the kids, and the hot chicks, and dinguses like this who can't shit or get off the pot. So let's get down with that." He stepped to his computer terminal, "Are you ready? I'm bringing up a new question, and we're gonna work through the burn. You ready?"

I assented.

"OK; here goes:"

you have a big head


Shit. Now he's fucking pouting in the back of his goddamn tank again, fuckers.

Happy Thanksgiving, you buncha thankless douche-asses. I hope a cat shits in your goddamned, genetically freaked-out, too fucking-fat to fuck, all white meat, 22-cent-a-pound turkeys. I hope your turkey friers catch your house on fire, and your daughters get VD fucking their cousins in the rumpus room while you slip into fucking food-induced-fat-ass turkey comas. I hope you get fucked up rashes from ass fucking your elderly uncles with nothing but cranberry sauce for lube, then choke on your fucking pie, while puking up crazy fucked up salmonella-sauce mashed potatoes!

Fuck all of you, who just gotta take and take with out ever giving a fucking thanks. Happy Fucksgiving!


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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)

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