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Squid #401
(published September 25, 2008)
Ask the Giant Squid: Tonight We Feast on Man-Flesh!
Who is Poor Mojo's Giant Squid?
Oh, Great Squid God, boundless is your hunger for these wriggling pink things called humans. Would it not please Thee to be able to munch on the craniums of those you missed who have attained adulthood? This adult pink thing longs to have her bony head bits enveloped in your yarny hunter tentacles but at present is unable to do so.


Dearest Anonymous Autothanatophiliac and Dedicated Reader,

As ever, I am confused and disturbed by the perplexing, although seemingly inevitable, confluence of human sexuality, death, and my anatomy and willing participation. It is upon receipt of questions such as these that I begin to worry that I have, in a fundamental way, misappraised the human mating ritual and habits. The anatomical studies favored by my lab assistant, Rob — and widely available throughout these Internets — do little to quell my concerns that my a priori assumptions regarding the exact locations and orientations of the subtle lines that separate human erotic expression from simple cannibalism are, at best, mislaid, and at worst, a fanciful product of my imagining and go entirely unrecognized by humans themselves.

In short, your sexuality, in general, scares me to my soft and boneless core.

In contrast to that, I thrill at the opportunity to discuss matters gastronomical, both gourmet and gormand.

I can name no fewer than six adult Americans whom I have much wished I had taken the opportunity to devour when they were still young and succulent, but you have since grown old, stringy, desiccated, and dangerously high in fat-soluble toxins, such that they no longer possess the favor that I will not waver to savor. These include:

To this list I might add, upon further reflection:

But, of course, your very question betrays a prejudice popular among the Humangum americanum — and, I fear, evidenced in abundance in these self-same anatomical studies that Rob has so meticulously downloaded, sorted, and catalogued upon his workstation when he should be doing otherwise — which hold that the newer is better than the old, the young superior to the wizened, and the "barely legal" best of all. For while Cloris LeachMan or Zippy Thurmond have clearly drifted well past their primes, in terms of gracing the buffet, it does not necessarily follow that the sweet, sweet, sweetbreads of an infant are, in all cases, the most delectable morsel. You would not pay a visit to the Château Lafite Rothschild and demand their freshest wine, nor would you order the Surfing Turf platter in your local steakhouse in the hopes of being brought an over-sized plate featuring a mewling fetal cowlette, and a green and briny lobster, struggling in warm butter, still yearning to be free. For the most part, the meat of infants — and especially their brains — are mild to the point of tedium, a tactless and uninteresting pablum.

In the end, there is no quick formula, as pertains to age, for determining what human shall be tastiest. In that way, you and your ilk are much like your blesséd piñatas: Tantalizing mysteries that, by their very nature, call out to be whacked with a stick until such time as their delicious secrets gush out upon the tiles.

The following four humans are widely noted for their exceptional texture and nuanced flavors:

Astute readers will note that all four are male, and all four are kosher — as none were bottom-feeders, carnivorous insects, nor cooked in the milk of their mothers (facts which are, unfortunately, true of, The Herb Alpert Sharpton, The Uma Thurman, and The Beatrice Page, respectively). These facts, as it turns out, are entirely coincidental: Both Emily Dickinson and Emily Post were female and treyf, yet they number as the fifth and sixth tastiest American humans, respectively.

Peckish, I Remain,
Your Giant Squid

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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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