Where can I get information on a giant squid?
My Dear Readers,
It has come to my attention that I have, once again, been abandoned by technology's relentless advances; first the horseless-carriage, then the horseless-telegraph, and now it seems that, through guile and persistence, the horseless-Internet has finally burgeoned.
I am made to understand by my typist, Jarwaun, that the Internets have themselves become passé, in preference to some species of "Facebook Twitters"—a phrase I had initially mistaken for the euphemism coined by Israeli authorities to refer to the H1N1 Mexican Swine Flu without arousing the consternation of their pig-suspicious countrymen. As near as I can reconstruct from the baffling recounting offered by Jarwaun and my lab assistant Rob, a bird, or coalition of birds—possibly in or near the seaside metropolis of San Francisco—have constructed within the tubes of the Internets a set of very narrow sub-channels, via which very small messages might be conveyed with a swiftness. These narrow channels are pieced together from a variety of sorts of detritus, including leaf-litter, drinking straws, discarded video-cassette magnetized iron-oxide tape, grasses, and mud, and represent nearly 150 million years of ceaseless avian innovation (innovation, I might add, that took a starling turn after Charles Darwin and his inebriated man-servant did affix a copper wire to the larynx of a Galapagos finch—and it dawns upon me, Dear Readers, that I have never revealed the nature of my time upon the Galapagos when Master Darwin did come a-calling. Well, suffice it to say, the turtles were not the least bit pleased with me).
I will admit, at the first, I scoffed at this notion of the twitters, but having been treated to a display of the results of the birds' fine handicraft, I was swayed. I sent Rob forth, and he soon returned with a Blackberry communication device of impressive vintage, acquired with the aid of Admiral Craig Newmark's Domesday List.
"The bummer," Rob explained as he carefully squeezed all of the air from the freezer-ready food storage bag in which he was sealing my device, "Is that there used to be, like, mad-crazy cougar trim all flaunting it on Craigslist, but there's, like, some sorta crackdown on that now, because it's all, like, skanky East Side chicks with no shift-key or spellcheck, and zero-percent flashing the action, which bums me out, 'cause there's totally a thing, right, with some mature lady who's, you know, putting it out there? Right? Like, a thrill, 'cause she isn't all made-up and plasticized and trimmed and sculpted, just totally for real, like you might be standing behind her at the ATM." Rob placed the first bag within a second, and likewise voided this of air and sealed it, "Like when you're a kid, and you get all jazzed suddenly realizing that, under the clothes, everyone's got dicks and pussies and nipples."
Jarwaun scowled, "Everyone's got dicks and pussies?" he repeated. I too was now curious.
Rob stopped and looked up blankly, "Huh?" He shook the bags, testing his seals.
"You sayin' everyone got dicks and pussies."
"THIS," I opined, "IS LIKEWISE NEWS TO ME."
Rob took his own turn to scowl, and Jarwaun smiled broadly. "You guys are a couple of fucking grammar pricks, all the fucking time. 'Everyone has dicks or pussies'; happy?"
I assented it was so, and Jarwaun succumbed to the giggles.
"Anyway, fewer lonely cougars hooking up on Craigslist, like, in the grand scheme, probably means more lonely cougars out there, home all alone, Dancing with the Stars. That's a bummer. That's a bona-fide 100-percent bummer, man." Satisfied with his seals, Rob loaded the newly waterproofed handheld telephonic device into my food chute and released it to the waters of my tank.
"But the upside is that everyone is poor and hocking their shit cheap, so I get this puppy for $20. If those bags don't hold, we'll just go buy another one. Jarwaun made you an account, and I've got your shit all logged in, so, you know, twitter away or whatever."
And twitter I shall, dear readers, twitter I shall. Please feel free to follow me via this technological marvel, either through frequent referencing of the below chart, or by using your twitters to subscribe to my twitters. Send your queries and I shall endeavor to answer them, either in the penned-in near-haiku of Twitter herself, or here upon this weekly journal in a format more akin to Oulipo.
Your Giant Squid
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Copyright (c) 2000, 2004, David Erik Nelson, Fritz Swanson, Morgan Johnson