Poor Mojo's Almanac(k) Classic issue #124 (published March 6, 2003): "Brought to you by Mellissa Williams"
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Poor Mojo's Almanac(k) Classic issue #124 (published March 6, 2003)
Brought to you by Mellissa Williams
Giant Squid: Notes From The Giant Squid: Brief Notes on That Which is Published this Week by the Giant SquidGentle Readers,
Since taking the helm of this strange ship-of-craft, it is my enduring delight to share with you, the Greater Surface World in the Searing Up, the literary flotsam and jetsam which comes passing my way, gently fished from the roiling, black-mirror-ish sea-surface by my own tentacles, lovingly cleaned and proudly displayed, so as to increase and en-greaten the general low folly of la vida mundial. This I do for you, taking it as much my vocation (almost spiritual) and at least a responsibility sober and true.
This week's fictional display is provided by our own dear Fritz Swanson, a gentle boy of 26. His "Press Conference in an Apple Grove" details not only the simple matters of love and mating— of boundless fascination to me, as a species of armchair anthropologist— but also the greater passion that man has for impregnating the Moon . . .
Fiction: Press Conference in an Apple Grove by Fritz Swanson"You may have noticed," said the old and tired astronaut, "I have placed a great deal of value on my getting to the moon." He shifted his feet and gripped the podium with both hands. There was sweat all over his face. "It is true; I have elevated that goal far beyond the degree that is its due. I have done silly things, wrong things, sinful things, in the pursuit of that goal."
A woman in the front row threw an apple at the old astronaut, and it struck dully against his forehead. He paid the missile little mind, only nodding a bit in the woman's direction, smiling a half-smile.
"My Ex-Mother-in-Law, ladies and gentlemen." He smiled and raised a hand to indicate the woman who had thrown the apple. . . .
Poetry: The Ibis (from Mommy, part 4 of 5) by Barry BlumenfeldI search my hard heart,
Mommy, the desert
In your breast. You can
Go now, go. Ibis
Gaggles skein across
The moon. . . .
Rant: Remarks Concerning the Savages of North America by Benjamin FranklinSavages we call them, because their manners differ from ours, which we think the perfection of civility; they think the same of theirs.
Perhaps, if we could examine the manners of different nations with impartiality, we should find no people so rude, as to be without any rules of politeness; nor any so polite, as not to have some remains of rudeness. . . .
