Lil Jenny Gonzalez,
Dear Lil Jenny,
What rude questions you ask. They are as inappropriate as the things that Tom does with his mating tentacle in his cubicle when he thinks I am not watching.
Tom: attached to your workstation monitor is a web-live camera. You installed it yourself so that sweaty men-folk who become aroused at the sight of flabby myopic Orang Outangs can watch you and cry in frustration. But you are my sweaty Orang, Tom, and I am watching always.
Lil Jenny, you ask how a sperm whale eats me. What an odd and uncouth question. It seems clear to this reporter that no sperm whale has tasted my succulent flesh, and none shall. I am, you see, still alive and still ruling all of my ample demesne from high atop this glass, steel and concrete tower. Sperm whales are typically busy rooting in trash and complimenting each other on how well they have done rooting in their own filth— they remind me of your News Media. Also, they are very heavy and cannot survive without the firm embrace of the waters.
You ask how much I "eat," Lil Jenny. "Eat" is really too tame and humble a word for the process by which this Architeuthis goes about filling his cavernous digestive tract. More appropriate words rush forward in an instant: devour, consume, obliterate, maul, rend, eviscerate. My meals these days consist of between three and ten mature adult dogs. they are chosen for breed and intelligence; I cannot stand consuming a stupid creature. This is why Tom is still employed. Today I had four dogs for breakfast. Their names were Blitzkrieg— a German Shepherd with a dopey grin and white feet, he could perform over eighty tricks and never begged at the table; Peaches— a stinking mutt of a dog only loved by his elderly slime-monkey owner, he was her only friend in the world; Jake— a stunning Golden Retriever with warm brown eyes and blood that tasted like think syrup; and finally the St. Bernard Sir Reginald for dessert— Tom had an exquisitely hard time catching this one.
My large breakfast was followed by a small lunch: only one dog . . . his name escapes me.
Then I had a three dog night-cap. I snipped off their heads with my perfectly sharp beak and drank their steaming humors— except for the bile. I, like all gentlesquid, prefer my bile iced
Your third question is so laughable as to be undeserving of even my belligerence. I will not deign to answer it, foolish chimplette.
And, as I invest a moment in calm reflection, I discover, Lil Jenny, that I know who you really are. The answer arose from the chasm of my unconscious mind, the crystal lattice of synchronous coincidence that overlays all that is.
Sang, my assistant not the sodomy-loving fashion designer, and I were watching television this afternoon when the answer came to me in the form of an American situation comedy from the past. It was a rayrun, according to Sang, of your masterpiece program "Small Wonder."
Lil Jenny Gonzalez, you less than whole creature, you denizen of silicon, you worshipper of electrostatic might. You are a robot. I call you Vicky, now and forever.
Realization should have come to me upon the briefest glimpse of your grammar and IP address. I should have known. Perhaps I grow old and ignorant? sigh
Android gyno-chimp, ask me no more foolish questions. Tell your masters that they had better keep their end of our bargain, or the clipping and scratching things that lurk between rocks and under beds will come for them. Tell them and go to hell, Vicky.
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Copyright (c) 2000, 2004, David Erik Nelson, Fritz Swanson, Morgan Johnson