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Squid #100
(published September 19, 2002)
Ask The Giant Squid: A Taxonomy of Ups; or, a Better Reference viz. the Moods of a Squid Using Meals as a Guide
Who is Poor Mojo's Giant Squid?
Dear Giant Squid:

What up squid?


Ah, Theodore. Indeed you pose an interesting question.

"What up squid."

I have known many squid in my ancient and long life, and to each of them I have posed this question of what is up them.

You see, as we (the world's squidkind) hang in the water column, tendrilled limbs lithe and open, beaks quickly a-click, drawing prey up into the alimentary canal, the sustenance and soul of the various victims is pulled up into the Internal Being of the squid, and the ascent of that gross matter causes a specific and peculiar change in the mollusk as he or she digests. To each meal, there is a different result, such and like to each season there is a thing under Heaven. And so, it is a question which can give much insight into the squid's individual mental orientation. If one might begin a catalogue of the many ups of the squid, and the effect of those ups, one might better anticipate when, for example, it would be fortuitous to ask a squid for a raise in salaried payment, or when one might best avoid a squid who is up with something quite nasty.

Thus, let us now track the many states of the squid, and what is up him. Let this serve as the beginning of a guide to all who would dare engage the attention of Architeuthis Dux in business, diplomacy or affairs of the hearts.

The Ups Organic (non-sentient):

The Ups Inorganic:

The Ups Organic (sentient):

A Brief Concluding Note: I stop myself now, consciously, although I have many more ups I might wish to detail and describe. It seems that the ups-meme is, in my mind, ever-hydral, for I snicker-snick off one ups, pining it 'neath the glass of description, and two more rear up in my mind, veritably begging to be explicated for your continuing erudition. And then, even beyond that writhing forest of the ups-which-might-be-named, there are still evermore: the rage of coral and confusion of tires, the ebullience of marlin and maudlin of lions, the sheer winnowing fugue of deer as they twist-at-spine and stampede their dancerlegs, inexorably sinking ever deeper into the Glassy Blue— these are the ups which cannot yet be described by oh-so-humble I in your simple, charming grunt-lingus. This is the love that one dare not speak.

Ever More Ups,
The Giant Squid

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