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Squid #395
(published August 14, 2008)
Ask The Giant Squid: Boxers or Briefs?
(a Poor Mojo's Classic)
Who is Poor Mojo's Giant Squid?
[As August 2008 marks the close of our seventh year of weekly publication, we shall spend this month enjoying "the blast from the past" with selections from Poor Mojo's Almanac(k): Year One. Please, enjoy! — Your Giant Squid, Editor-in-Chief, PMjA]

[originally published in issue #20]

Dear Squid,

I have a few questions that I thought might be interesting to your readers. I could say I'm researching for a paper or something, but that would be a lie. When you get right down to it, you, with your incredible power you would probably have me killed by a group of minuscule crabs who would borough into my naughty parts until I wanted to live no more. Wait - that was the "escort" on the corner of 5th and G in LA.

I digress.

First, boxers or briefs? I know what you're thinking, squid don't have legs, much less genitals which require some sort of containment or concealing, but I'm talking for fun. Like do you ever put run / swim / squiddle (what have you) up behind someone to scare them with undergarments on your head / body/ squishy brain case (again, what have you)? Who knows, maybe you're one of those squid who likes to wear this sort of thing for kicks, though I'd think not— believing you're so superior to humans and all.

Second, if you were an octopus would you still ink the bed? I know you're a squid and all, and that it probably pains you to be compared to a jellyfish, and to a greater extent an octopus, but it's just a hypothetical.

Finally, who is your favorite Backstreet Boy?

Your most loyal fan,



Hey. This is the squid's lab assistant, Tom. Well, uh, the squid is out again. He's been reacting weirdly to the treatments. I told him that I've been filling in for him—I figured better to tell him straight up and out front than to have him find out while I'm sleeping and helpless—he didn't seem to mind. Although when he saw that I was wearing a green flannel shirt with a pair of brown corduroys, he flew into a rage.

Oh well.

The Marine Biologist says he has no idea what's happening, but that he expects a speedy recovery. I'm not sure how he knows all that. But he is a doctor and all, so I've to trust him.

As for the question:

Dude. You think the GS has no external genitals? You should stand where I stand everyday. Talk about inferiority complex. His wang is taller than me, and damn near as wide as me.

The worst part, though, is that he knows it.

For awhile is was alright, he had no idea how important dick size was to us, as a culture. Not that I'm small or anything. Far from it. It's just that...okay, his is seven feet long. There, I've said it. Gotten it out of the way, although at seven feet I bet it's always in the way. I mean, can you imagine having a seven footer?

Where was I? Oh, yeah. One day we were watching Ally McBeal, and I was just sitting there taking notes and checking dials—the usual, y'know? And the Giant Squid taps me on the shoulder of my pressure-suit. At this point, I'm positive I'm gonna die.

Just the day before we fed him a seal lion to see what effects it'd have on him, and it was terrifying. Blood everywhere. Howling. Thumping. Many threats and musings as to what our flesh would taste like. Horrible.

So I feel this tap on my suit and I know as soon as I turn around all I'll see is that shiny, clicking beak of his spearing right into my eye. I brace myself and spin, and GS is just floating there with his huge eyes pressed against the TV screen. One of his smaller tentacles is pointing and gesturing at Ally. And he asks, "Is this humorous, a dirt-crawling vertebrate having a large sexual member? I feel I am missing something intrinsic in the humor of this program."

And I'm just so relieved that I'm not dead that I tell the truth. I say, "It's not exactly humorous, but rather considered advantageous. Desirable."

"And what is an average length? Four feet? Three feet?"

"No," I say. "According to the magazines, average is about six inches."

"Six feet?" He asked, a purplish hue spreading across his cerebral sac.

"No. Inches. Six inches."

He didn't stop laughing for days. Whenever I would enter his containment room to adjust something, he would just whip it out and waggle it at me and laugh.

So I'd say briefs probably, although they'd probably cover his eyes.

The Giant Squid's favorite Backstreet Boy is Howie D., although I'm not sure you want to know the basis on which he's determined Howie to be his "favorite." As for that ink question, I'm not exactly sure what you're asking, although I bet the squid would tear you apart if he knew you'd asked. He's like that.

[NOTE WELL: Fewer than two weeks remain to enter our latest $33-and-a-third Meritorious Boon Contest on the topic of "Bad Job, Good Times; Good Job, Bad Times." Delay not! ENTER TODAY!—Sincerely, Your Giant Squid, Editor-in-Chief, PMjA]

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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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