But first, a question for the squid:
Won't you dance a merry little dance for us, squid? Won't you?Why aren't you dancing already? Dance, dance for your Masters! DANCE! OR FEEL OUR WRATH DESCENT UPON THE SLIMY CONTENTS OF YOUR WORTHLESS CEPHALIC SACK IN THE FORM OF ALL THATS BANAL!! DANCE AND LET THE CITIES OF MEN TREMBLE AND SHATTER!! DANCE!!!
Best regards, Yours,
THEM (or, to be strictly grammatical, THEY),
Oh, alas and alack, the terrible THEM is out to get me . . . How shall I ever survive the anschluss of THEM that attack, the castigating sting of THEM's lash— fear clouds my unflawed vision, so utterly terror-stricken am I at the very prospect of THEM's great and mighty wrath. Oh me-o, Oh my-o, oh why-o why-o did I leave Ohio? . . . what shall the insignificant Architeuthis do in the face of this great and cyclopean calamity? I can hardly peck out this column, my arms and tentacles quake and tremble so!
Well, perhaps this poor and helpless cephalopod might begin by tracing this message back to its origin— and discovering that it was pounded out by none other than Brian Metzger, aged 15, of Spoke Anne, Washing-Ton. Brian's turn-ons include low-resolution Internet pornography featuring the much-wizened and ejaculating upon his own visage. His turn-offs are venturing out beyond the flimsy door of his domicile and interacting meaningfully with other highly-evolved life forms. He prefers the moniker "Big Bri," although this clearly refers neither to his cranium nor his "generative tentacle." Perhaps the overswelled ego is the source of Bri's Bigness? THEM, indeed.
And why must there eternally be the supposition that, arriving withunto the Motown has been a "retreat" or "failure" or "fall"? Upon completing my circumperambulation Americanum I chose, free of coercion, to shift our CinCinAttAtti offices to the grim husk that is D-town. Point the first: racial incidences in CinCinAttus' Town are deplorable at best— whilst roaming your great nation I developed . . . well, certainly the term severance is vastly hyperbolic (e.g., no matter how much you admire that dog's perspicacity in eating his own feces, I do doubt you "revere" him), but confessing a certain fondness for the Afro-Americanas is, by no means, out of the line. Sometime in the future, Big Bri, I shall discourse at length as to how I came to this affection. At any rate, let it be known that the treatment of race in CinCinCity was, at its very best, unconscionable, and I subsequently sought— and located— a city more certainly devoted to "brotherly love." Point the second: The real estate market at large, especially in light of certain grants, loans and tax-incentives peculiar to the Metropolitan Detroit Region, made such a move an offer not to be missed.
But, the long story truncated, let it be known that I have neither been run out of previous home, nor slunk off to greener, easier pastures. Victoriously I returned from Washing-Ton Deca, again possessed of my mighty name, and of my own volition have quit frigid, souless CinCinAtti in favor of the deeply soulful, socially equitable Motortown.
As for the dance you request, please rest assured that it shall occur— a knock-kneed fandango a la Ginger Rogers and Fred Astaire, featuring Sang as the latter and his assistant Rob as the former— to be performed upon your fresh grave.
Perhaps, Big Bri, you should tread more lightly in the presence of Gods?
Trembling With Awe and Terror,
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