Has any one seen a live giant squid before?

Your Biggest Fan,
unsigned

My Anonymous Aficionado,

As a matter of established fact, none have seen me perform live, a reality which much vexes me. I had contracted to perform upon the brick-wall-backdroppéd stage of Mark Ridley, his Comedy Castle this very approaching Sunday's after-noon. Preparatory to this, I had done a great deal of research both wide and deep throughout the Internet, as well as via the books-mobile reserve system of the Detroit Public Library (which, as it turns out, is well stocked of the humor manuals penned by Mr.s Thomas Biracree and Julius Alvin throughout the last two decades of the twentieth century—a period that, as evidenced by the comedic and dramatic works of Andrew Eurydice Clay and Samuel Langhorn Kinison, to name but a pair, represents a high-water mark in the forging and crafting of quality humors). Sadly, I now report that in the early part of this week loathsome complication befell me, resulting in cancellation of this established live appearance, and an indefinite hiatus in my live comedic recitations.

Specifically, the entire matter came to a head, and subsequent collapse, this past Tuesday's late afternoon, when my steadfast supporter and occasional lab assistant, Rob, did enter my laboratory. "ROB," I did call forth in the manner jocular, "DO YOU KNOW HOW ONE MIGHT READILY DETERMINE THAT THE LORD YOUR GOD HAD NOT A DEGREE IN URBAN PLANNING?"

"Hunh? Wha—"

"BECAUSE NO URBAN PLANNER WOULD PLACE A WASTE TREATMENT FACILITY DIRECTLY ADJACENT TO HIS GENERATIVE ORGANS!"

Rob paused a moment in consideration.

"Oh. It's a joke; you're telling a—shit!" he turned to look upon my teenagéd typist, Jarwaun, with curious dismay, "He isn't on about this open mic thing again, is he?"

"Me and Tray think he—"

"No! NO! What did I say!"

Jarwaun rolled of the eyes, "You say we gotta discourage this stuff, on account of humanity, but me an' Trael been talking 'bout it, and one, Mr. Squid ain't even human, so that's not even a thing, and two discourage means, like, to suck the courage out of something, and Tray and me think that's straight-up wrong. Fo' sure."

"True," Trael said solemnly, nodding of the head, "True."

Rob gnashed his teeth, gripping of his reversed baseballers' cap.

"We've been through this!" he implored, "We agreed that we've gotta be a little tiny bit more conscious about our public image; it isn't like he can bomb at the Comedy Castle, kill a dog at the bar, drink a case of gin, call some chick a 'niggling Cunctator,' and folks will be like You know, I think I saw the monster that lives at the top of the Ren Cen acting the douche in Royal Oak last night. They're gonna write their congressman and wonder why the Hell the Fed is bailing out a foul-mouthed dog-eating freakazoid that claims to hold 51-percent of a securitized mortgage on Mt. Rushmore."

"THOSE PAPERS ARE IN ORDER!" I shouted reflexively, but went unnoted.

Little Trael, eyes always upon Rob, shook his tiny, fuzzy head; "You actin' a fool all the time, and ain't no one worry that you makin' white folk look bad . . . " he considered. "Worse."

Sensing I might be losing my audience, I re-asserted my well-honed schtick: "JARWAUN," I implored, "WHAT WOULD YOU CALL AN AFRICAN-AMERICAN FRED FLINTSTONE?"

Jarwaun stitched his brow.

"A NIGGER!" I rejoined.

Trael snorted his merriment, and Jarwaun sniggered. Rob's jaw dropped.

"Jesus fuck! What is wrong with you guys?!? That is a mad fucked-up thing to say!"

"Yeah," Jarwaun nodded. "But shit's true, too, you know? Like how George Bush, he The President that Blew Up Iraq for Nuthin', and if he'd cured cancer, he'd be The President that Cured Cancer, but Barack Obama, no matter what he do, he always gonna be The First Black President. For reals. Serious."

Rob fumed, his mouth gobbing like a fish incredulous to the rebuttal of his opponent in a lively debate.

"Listen," Jarwaun said, hands aloft and palms toward Rob.

Rob fumed and gawped, but listened.

"Just imagine, for reals and honest, like if Barack Obama killed a million Jews," Rob opened his mouth yet wider, now slack with disbelief, but Jarwaun waved him down, "Lemme finish—if he killed a million Jews, would anyone seriously, seriously call him The President that Killed a Million Jews, or would they just keep saying First Black President? Be honest. Be totally totally honest."

Rob closed his food hole, nodded. "Yeah, I get it."

"Mr. Squid ain't no different," Jarwaun continued. "He could knit little dresses for all them kittens at the kitten pound, and he would still be the crazy monster that runs those Dogs is the Better White Meat ads on WXON."

"OK, but still, you shouldn't be encouraging this shit; it always, always goes off the rails—"

Sensing the momentum of my roll, as they say in the parlance of the showing businesses, I pressed forward with my newest material.

"WHAT IS THE DIFFERENCE BETWIXT A REFRIGERATOR AND A GAY-FAGGOT?" I asked my eager audience, then waited a beat, as is described in the literature of the comedy trades.

"THE REFRIGERATOR DOES NOT MOAN WHEN MEAT IS THRUST INTO IT!"

The smile fell from Jarwaun's mien, and his younger brother scowled in earnest.

"That ain't funny, Mr. Squid. People get hurt," the younger Trael scolded, "People get killed on things like that. Hurt themselves bad. I heard it on the TV."

But, even with my staff's renewed support (which I naturally assume is forthcoming), I found myself immediately and enduringly unstageworthy; the shyness and demurity of my species being well-established. Jarwaun had the good taste to cancel my upcoming booking, and we considered the matter a wash (although, just between you and me, Dear Readers, I continue to polish my materials for my triumphant initial return to the stage).

Demurely I Remain,
Your Giant Squid
Editor-in-Chief
PMjA