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Poor Mojo's Almanac(k) Classic issue #166 (published February 12, 2004)
A hall pass for Nirvana.
Giant Squid: Notes from the Giant Squid: I Accept! I Accept! You To Me Bring The Liking, You Really Do! OnWard! by the Giant Squid
It is with tremendous multi-chromatic joy and swelling multi-chambered polyheartedness that I accept your strong and pulsing support in this, the battle-march to that Novemberian contests of the Casa Blanca !
Thanks to you! Thanks to you all, you furr-deprived monkey men; you swollen teated, swaying gaited, be-toothed and surly chimp-ladies; thanks so much in the endless expressions of the deep. If I could but extend these arms of hunting far enough I would envelop you all in a searching, crushing embrace that would, like a million orgasmos, cause the blood to well up, to burst exhaltingly, from your much distended eye-balls!
Fiction: Dancing Lessons (part 4 of 8) by William Starr Moake
I skipped the football game because a goddamn blizzard started blowing and I didn't feel like catching pneumonia. I went to the dance in the school gymnasium after the game. I hardly ever attend dances because I'm not much of a dancer. My big feet don't always go where they're supposed to go. I can handle slow dances if I concentrate on what I'm doing, but fast dances really throw me. Anyway, there I was in my stocking feet, leaning up against the wall like some wallflower while I looked for Pauline in the crowd. It must have been a hundred degrees in the gym and I was sweating like a pig. I was feeling pretty lousy and I had a crazy idea that seeing Pauline up close might lift my spirits. I finally spied her dancing with Mr. Quarterback to a fast tune. She had told me on the phone she was a great dancer, but I thought she was bragging. Watching her move on the dance floor, I realized she hadn't been bragging one bit. She was so hot the quarterback could hardly keep up with her. My eyeballs practically fell out of their sockets. . . .
Poetry: The Garden's Dirty by Alex Chambers
words await you under untilled earth
until you loose your hoe and sweat drops in.
Tumescent gardens labor under hand.
You've left your mind, since touch is mute. . . .
Rant: I'm the Exact Same Height as the One-time Democratic Front-Runner; please listen to me because this fact makes me very important by Fritz Swanson
. . . My uncle lives in Springfield, Virginia, in the same neighborhood where Andre the Giant lived. We saw Andre at the supermarket once, before he died (his huge, all-loving heart would one day burst, but then, while nagging my mother for Twinkies, I had no inkling of that tragic fate). What we all noticed was that Andre was married to a decidedly diminutive woman. And they looked very happy.
And privately, I wondered what it was like for them to have sex. Along with starting a beard in the fourth grade, I can say now my imagination as a fourth grader had also grown. . . .