In this note editorialis I shall account for the three pieces presented to you, the fine readers of this almanac(k), for this very week of fair June-lie. All that I can say is that I am shocked and appalled at what I have wrought.

Rant

Our opinion piece of this week is the companion conclusion to that of last week, entitled "Revenge of the Jedi: Starting to Think About Where Copyright is Getting Us Part Two: The New, The Public Domain, and Why Plagiarism is Good" and penned by my own much beloved Fritz the Swanson. I have never known a man born of waterfoul so able to grow hair upon his beak-face— which I generally admire, as I myself am unable to grow hairs generally, they being somewhat counter-to-the-progress in an oceangoing sort such as myself. I have, upon the occasions appropriate been known to wear an ersatz beard, and have generally been pleased with the results. If only a beard was to grow (sigh.)

I would now wave of my hunting tentacles, and admonish myself for indulging in aesthetic concerns and thus dragging forthway anti-progressward in my point. But, fortunate sons and daughters, I find that this piece of writing deals explicitly with aesthetics, and that field's relation to piracy, and so in wondering away from the topic I find myself once again upon it, and thusly we see that some topics are spherical in nature, quod erat demonstrandum. I find these matters of pirates and aesthetics of general interest for several reasons, first and foremost being the prevalence of beard-hairs among pirates, but also owing to my long affection for their artistic output— the sea chantys, the play acting, the torture, the paintings. It is indeed a pirate's life for such as me. Alas that, in my limited dealings with pirates I have yet to come across those strapping swashbucklers of yore.

Perhaps it is just a matter— like so many others— that can only be resolved through the liberal application of the Spider Bros wonderful time travelling machine.

Poetry

Our poetical offering is a "Clinquant" by Mrs. Marcy Jarvis of Deutschland Uber Alles. Mrs. Jarvis speaks quite stirilingly, if in brief, of the manifold plights of birds in agricultural outbuildings (especially those much a-glitter with their tinseled finery? Ah, to be young and clinquant again . . .) In all honesty, I must to admit that there is a certain resonance between the tiny flitter-heart of this bird, much confined, and my own triple-triphammers, massive though they be. Is there not an obvious relation a-twixt the flight of birds and the gliding swimmery of one as myself? Can we not all feel the confinement of these times most uncertain? In truth, I am almost brought to regret having confined my lab assistant Rob to a closet for several weeks so many months past. Almost.

Fiction

Finally we come to reflect upon Wayne the Scheer's "Growing Up." It is in this piece, and this author, where the bulk of my crimson shock resides.

Mr. Scheer writes this short autobiography for our edification and enlightenment:

After teaching writing and literature in college for twenty-five years, WayneScheer recently retired to follow his own advice and write. Some of hisshort stories and essays have appeared in Flashquake, StoryOne, Literary Potpourri and The Phone Book. He was nominated for a Pushcart Prize in 2002.

Wayne lives in Atlanta with his wife.

After comparing this and his submitted piece again, I am forced to make note of at least one major discrepancy: The speaker of the piece who claims to be Mr. Scheer by virtue of the use of the "I" pronoun is by his own admission only 15 year's aged. Wherefore the remaining 10 years of his teaching career? Wherefore the time to woo and marry a mate? Wherefore the many years leading up to the teaching and the fornicating, Mr. Scheer?! I am beginning to suspect there is not much that is, as my sagacious Rob would say, on the "up and upward" about this Atlantic Scheer.

I think upon this much. It worries me greatly. How can a 15-year-holder have taught for 25 years? Lacking access to a wonderful trans-temporal device such as the Spider Bros have crafted me, that is, and Spider and Devo Ramirez assure me that they have crafted but one such device, and I alone hold the keys and dangling discorporate rabbit-leg-bit key fob.

The conclusions, I fear, are most clearly before us: It seems that this "Scheer" (if that is indeed his surname true) is a liar. A liar who writes some sort of fiction full of falsehoods. I am unto sputtering with outed rage.

The city of Atlanta should be informed, in the very least. If any citizen of Atlanta is reading this, go forth to your authorities and warn them of this teller of falsetales, this strange pathological boy of 15, defrauding honorable women and institutions of higher education.

What has this world come to, and to what level has the honored profession of fiction sunk when liars can practice it and be nominated for its awards? There are lies everywhere in this terrible upspace of yours, monstrous simians of the dry-land! Perhaps I see not the water for it immerses me ever, but for you, cannot the same be said of your terrible not-truths?

I shall sulk now, for at least an hour. And then there is lunch.

I Remain,
THe Giant Squid