For so long cephalopods have been appreciated more for their bilateral body symmetry than for their immense knowledge of all things. All of my acquaintances confirm this—I squid you not!
Why is this?
Waiting for what you ink, I remain...
My Dearest Readers,
You have likely noted that the great bulk of the questions which I receive are about myself:
Questions which I oft address—yet nonetheless, you have anonymously struck the nail upon its much-battered head: Despite nigh unto a decade of Internet correspondence, even my readers, when pressed for details, can only produce vague descriptions of my physique ("Um . . . he's got an optically perfect eye . . . and . . . um . . . 8 or 10 tentacles . . . aaaaaand . . . a big fucking wang!", Marcus Wellenstock, Age 27 when approached via telephony by Molly.) rather than any salient, substantive observation about my hopes, dreams, near universal knowledge of all matters both mundane and numinous, or pet peeves (which include rainy days, being seated near the kitchen, and men who are "pushy" on the first date, or stringy).
Just this past week's end I was discussing this very same matter with my dear friend and occasional co-conspirator, Pamela Anderson. As I lolled in her outdoor swimming pool, I complained that it seemed that, to much of the world, I was just an optically perfect set of eyes, irresistibly crushing tentacles, and a terrible and rending maw.
"I know!" Pam exclaimed, blowing a stray, golden lock from her forehead with a puff from her pursed lips. She leaned over her workbench, quickly flicking back from the index of her dogeared copy of Molecular Biology of the Cell (Fourth Edition) before adjusting the alcohol-burner flame heating her primary retort. "It doesn't matter what I'm talking about—Kid Rock, mandatory vaccination, my ad hoc tectonic sensor array and early warning system, the Doomsday Device—and, no matter what, there has to be a sentence somewhere in the article about my boobs." These she waggled, briefly, before squinting one optically imperfect, yet nonetheless fetching, eye to aid her in re-calibrating and adjusting her condenser. "Are they bigger? Are they smaller? Were they more pert when they were less organic? Ugh! Even if I say something like 'I'm more than a pair of boobs, fellas!' it's just a chance for them to include a parenthetical timeline of my evolving bustline!" Pam leaned back as, slowly, a single drop of alkali reagent gathered at the condenser's stopcock, then gently dropped into the titration vessel.
Pam smiled and winked at me, and I winked back, which is to say I flaired a series of vacuoles in an insouciant manner. "We'll get these into the thermal cycler with the target DNA's sense and anti-sense strands, then see what kind of parentheticals the news boys wanna slip in."
Pamela took hold of her volumetric pipettes, then paused and laughed a lusty, cackling laugh—"BWAHHAHHAHHAHHAHHHH!"—that reached up into the cloudless heavens like a smokey, indefatigable tentacle seeking to strangle the gentle and forgiving God of the world's jackstraw collection of Judeo-Christo-Muslims, if He had existed, which He did not. I laughed as well. We laughed together. Pam and I have such fun when we visit, and such occasions are simply too infrequent.
So inspired, I seek now to ameliorate what has become a mote unto my optically perfect eye:
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Copyright (c) 2000, 2004, David Erik Nelson, Fritz Swanson, Morgan Johnson