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Squid #81
(published Early, 2002)
Ask The Giant Squid: Or a Butterfly Dreaming of Being a Chinamen Redux

Who is Poor Mojo's Giant Squid?
What if you dreamed that you walked the fields of heaven, and that you plucked a beautiful flower there?

And what if you woke up the next morning, and you had that flower in your hand?

What then? Eh?

What then?

What then Squid?



I presume that, in your left-tentacled surface-scuttler way, you are making reference to this incident of maudlin rumination. Let me begin for thanking you most sincerely for making light of my dilemme existentiel. You are clearly among the more empathic and sensitive of your ilk and, once I finish research, development and construction of my sub-orbital armored dirigible, you may be sure that you most certainly will not be among the first steeped in the boiling contents of their city's sewage removal and transportation system. In the case that one leaves in a non-sewered region, they might expect to be poached in the contents of their septic fields. In other extra-ordinary situations where-in neither a systemic sewer nor a septic drainage field are available, the Dirigible Ferocious will also carry a finite volume of sewage, to be used for such purpose of cooking those less accommodating than yourself.

Perchance there is confusion, so I shall re-explain in words more simple:

Item the First: I am being sarcastic in the first part (e.g. viz your extreme empathy for the spiritually confounded) and deadly with the serious in the second (e.g., viz my ultimate plans to roast the sinful portions of your specious in their own excrement, in much the same way as your Noah did with his Terrible Ark.)
Item the Second: You are a jerk extreme.
Item the Third: You are, additionally, stupid.

(I pause here to flurry up my tentacles in a confused and frustrated spiral of color and light)

There is a wonderful sensation which perhaps you do not understand: drawing in water so that it flows smooth as silk over my gills, and then pushing it out again through my mantle so that I flutter in the water column... the oxygen and the massaging quality of the water against my translucent skin...

I am calm.

I most humbly beg your highly-evolved pardon, Mattados of Hotmail.com. Indeed, I endeavor most strenuously to comprehend your species' brand of intelligence. After travels both great and broad across this Big America, I came to the realizing that, per chance, there was more lurking 'neath these blank countenances than I had first credited.

To put it in the parlance common, I began to suspect that I had "sold shorts" to the humanity, and perhaps had best begin to re-evaluate my previous assumptions, presumptions and observations. Truly, my actual sensory data— the stinks I smelled, surfaces I touched, communications I eavesdropped, texts I read— These were not wrong, but it began to seem likely that, perchance, my interpretation had been flawed by too little latitude-in-thinking.

And then, in the middlemost part of the slowbirth of these nascent suspicions, I was visited by my Dream of Being Tom. I had not dreamed afore, and have yet to dream since, and much of my thought's broodings have been about this nightly visitation. It is an honest consternation which troubles me. This Homo sapien sapien that slips away from my ken like the ink cloud of shallow water cousins, murky and ephemeral, mixing with mud and feces and shimmering sunlight.

And you seem to mock my honest inspection.

Thank you and good night.

The 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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