Poor Mojo's Almanac(k) Classic issue #257 (published December 15, 2005): "Perpetually sore from the electric bull."
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Poor Mojo's Almanac(k) Classic issue #257 (published December 15, 2005)
Perpetually sore from the electric bull.
Giant Squid: Ask the Giant Squid: Midget Vs Lion by the Giant Squid
Any thoughts regarding the theoretical cage match between a lion and forty midgets? Of particular interest to me: who would win?
Far from shockingly, this is indeed a matter upon which I have meditated much, considered thoroughly, and come to some conclusions. Primarily of note is the relationship of size to numerosity.
Consider: Clearly it is the case that much more oft than not, the small must fall before the strong. Although ants are sagacious in their autonomy, the ant is oft eaten by the vexsome and nigh-unto brainless cat, so much the larger and more tactless than she (As an aside, K., were you aware that a cat can live for almost seven weeks without use of its head? Strange, and yet true. They are creatures nigh unto totally autonomic in function.) Similarly, there is little question of who shall be victor in such popular match-the-ups as David vs. the Goliath, polar bear vs. marmoset, Christian vs. lion, hurricano vs. tenement or Roe vs. Wade. Can a cat challenge a king? For certain it is not the case, for the average cat has a mass under 7 kilos, while an average king posseses some 90.
So, then, we know that the larger does conquer the smaller. There is a matter of size.
But, consider thurther: There is size, and then there is multitude. . . .
Fiction: Must be Love by Nadine Darling
He has his hand between her knees, then on her belly. It's already there, the belly, pressing out like the flat of a tongue.
"See here," says Jack, "how fat do you plan upon getting?"
"Oh, massively so," says Suzanne. "Massively."
"I want to dance," says Suzanne.
"Fat people love dancing. It's humorous. Also, falling down stairs. Also, getting their hands caught in giant mouse-traps."
"Then, let's do all of that," says Suzanne. "Right now."
"I want to go home," says Jack.
They're in the new car, which smells of wet and leather and other people's air, and it's raining out and early. Several paramount stop lights are out; yellow-slickered traffic cops stand in the middle of intersections, arms akimbo, like Rubbermaid reverends, whistles clenched between their teeth, middle-aged dissatisfaction coming off them in waves like a musk. Jack drives carefully, hunched forward, his hand still on Suzanne's belly, listening for new-car sounds that shouldn't be there.
She touches his forearm, his elbow. She watches the side of his face as he drives, the peppery stubble, his fine jaw grinding gum, a slight chap creeping up his lower lip like frostbite.
"Do you know what this is like?" Asks Suzanne. . . .
Poetry: Animist Youth by Jon Reeve
at an orphanage in Bombay,
when the circus elephant appeared
on trial for lunatic espionage
when we were young animists
we blinked like windshield-wipers over mud. . . .
Rant: Pricing Paradigms by Eric Howerton