Poor Mojo's Almanac(k) Classics (2000-2011)
| HOME | FICTION | POETRY | SQUID | RANTS | archive | masthead |
Squid #32
(published March 22, 2001)
Ask The Giant Squid: Raymond Carver Can Suck It
Who is Poor Mojo's Giant Squid?
Your view of human behaivour seems decidedly behaviourist, that essentially all we do is based on a system of rewards and punishments. How come then, if we are so simple that we are able to control your kind, even you are contained in a human made cage... how does it make you feel to be held captive by us?

ps have a nice Christmas.


First of all, allow me to apologize about Christmas. It has been quite some time and I seem to have a number of unanswered questions from that particular time period. The reason for this error in record keeping is mysterious to me, but I am comfortable allowing that blame to fall on Tom and his simple-minded antics. The whole of the Yuletide seasons seems hazy at best. Perhaps it was the genetically modified egg nog... yes, nog . . . I shall consider the matter closed on that note.

With regard to my "captivity," time and again I have attempted to explain— through analogy and example and diagram and anecdote— that I am a "captive" in much the same way that a king is the prisoner of his subjects, or the queen bee enslaved by her hive. I grow tired of repeating myself, and will no further broach the topic of my "imprisonment" in this tower of glass and steel. As famed human Marcus Twain once noted, "One should never endeavor to train a pig to sing— it causes you to appear ridiculous and frustrates the swine." I will no longer attempt to teach you pigs to sing.

As for human behavior, I once believed that it was best controlled through gift and torture: stroke the head when Tom has delivered supper on time, twist off a limb when my water is allowed to become too warm. While these methods had the added cost of fatally maiming many once able-bodied assistance, they did succeed in forging a high level of spring-steel obedience. I delighted in my success, for a time, and put aside any further wondering vis a vis the vagaries of the "human condition." For a time.

But, then we began the business of this advice-to-you column, and I realized that your species is capable of a specious, mal-formed step-cousin to reason. Imagine my surprise. Analogy: When it dawned upon me that you stomp-lemurs were capable of memory, forethought and evaluation prior to acting, I experienced a shock much akin to what you might feel if a vole or stoat were to enter your home and begin to knit a tank. To lathe a phrase, it gave me a "moment's pause."

I thought: "Could it perhaps be that, through modes other than the simple expedient of hurt-&-soothe, I might attain a much finer calibration in my control of these letter-writing talk-pigs?" And, as I continued my interactions, loathsome and tedious as they were, I came to discover that yes, I could. I can. I shall.

And thus I have entered into your "social contract" of communication and response. Broadcast and return. You shall interrogate me and I shall provide wisdom. Ultimately a bond of joy and trust shall form whereby I might insinuate myself into your shallow puddle of consciousness and by way of subtle, self-consciously subtle, suggestion I might divert the course of your horrifically sprawling society. This new forum, indeed, might yet be a revolutionary step forward in my journey toward global conquest. A journey which shall end, finally, with a sweeping deluge of that benthic cold which cradles us each into the night of death.

Also, former head of the CIA George Herbert Walker Bush indicated that I would never be able to apply low-amperage, high-voltage electro-shocks to much of the human populace— not with my current equipment at any rate. Ah, which reminds: Please donate handsomely to this publication, as we sorely need much specialized equipment. Thank you.


Thus, I stand here. Float here. Am here.

And yet, as of this writing, your paltry communiqués were insufficient to allow me access to the full depth and breadth of your psyches (pardon my hyperbole— speaking of the "breadth" and "depth" of your paltry psycho-emotional existences is akin to lauding the guile and grace of the noble armadillo), and my assistants (living and dead) were of little assistance. Remarkably, your art has proven quite useful. I screened many films and tele-visual programs, as well as reading the vaster part of your textual output. I work still to slither through your collective, Jungian passion play.

So, now you know how and why it came to pass that I acquired my catholic understanding of your gossamer natures and inner groanings. I have cataloged and consumed, and I work still, late into the deliciously chilled night, absorbing your smear of a culture.

And by the way:

As a by-product of my research, I have come to appreciate how very limited and redundant your literature is. To that end, I have crafted this week's Fiction offering, so that you may "see how it's done." Please proceed to fiction immediately, so that you may enjoy and benefit from my conquest of your written art:

What I Am Telling You When I Tell You of Love (a fictional account)

You shall Enjoy!

That is all.


Share on Facebook
Tweet about this Piece

Poor Mojo's Tip Jar:

Contact Us

Copyright (c) 2000, 2004, David Erik Nelson, Fritz Swanson, Morgan Johnson

More Copyright Info