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Squid #405
(published October 23, 2008)
A Special Message From Your Giant Squid
Who is Poor Mojo's Giant Squid?
Dear Readers of the American Voting Populace,

We have come to a momentous moment in our nation's national history. As you well recall, just four short years ago I ascended the throne of the Presidency—a long, strange trip for a mulatto boy from the rough-and-tumbled streets of Kettering, Ohio, raised by two single parents, 15,000 faceless, black-robbed minions, and a mentally deficient felonious uncle. Likewise, it has been four long and trying years since my de-posture from that same throne. Four bitter, angry years, soured by many frustrations, and a bad fiscal moon rising.

I am intimately familiar with the massive powers vested in our Executor Branch. These may be wielded as a scalpel, or as a cudgel, or simply lain aside as so much kindling while one tears weeds fromst the ranch hedgerow—the powers ebb and flow, but the import of whose hands (or hunting tentacles) might, at their whim, grasp such powers remains of the utmost.

Four candidates stand aligned before you, two pairs pugilistic and politely ferocious, gabardine-garbed. They fight for the honor of serving Us, and we must select our finest handmaids to do so: Know them for what they are:

We here at Poor Mojo's Almanac(k) and Associated Media Services—including, but not limited to, our Newswire and 100% Cutelove—make it known that in the contest for president of the United States of this portion of the Americas, we firmly and roundly endorse Barack Hanuman O'Sullivan Obama and his ageless cohort, Lord Admiral Joseph Robinette Langtree Biden, D.D., D.D.S.

In their hands we hope to see a return to Peace and Prosperity. We hope to see an end to blindly divisive bickering that portrays every conflict as Manichean in nature, as if our world were perfectly split between Good and Evil, Us and Them, My Sporting Team and Your Sporting Team, spiked Penis and fanged Vagina. We hope that the steady rush of jobs from our shores to India, Africa, Old Mexico, California, and the Philippines can be halted, and that the tattered economic fabric of our industrial cities can be darned and woven into a mighty, breakless net that draws many delicious fiduciary fish to our tables and troughs. We hope that our schools may be fortified with patience and money and fine steel-reinforced concrete, so that the future of America is a future awash in knowledge and wisdom, and protected from Agendas, be they gay or stern. We hope that the economic chasm between the wealthy one percent and the rest of the nation can be bridged, and that it is American workers building that bridge. We hope that one day every family can afford their own home, unless they would prefer not to have a home, and might do so without crippling debt or ugly neighbors who refuse to invite us to their barbecued gatherings. We hope to promise a solar car in every garage, and a succulent dog in every pot. We hope that we can be defended against eldritch powers arrayed against us. We hope that the Great Rising of the seas can be stopped and reversed, our shoreline cities saved, and our vacation properties not swept to the sea.

In short, we Hope.

Remember, remember on the fourth of November:
Eight years of gunpowder, treason, and plot,
For we see no reason why two terms of treason
Should ever be forgot.

Vote early and vote often, my darling dears.

Until Then, I Yet 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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