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tastes naxtier than braised feet with broccoli. And I ought to know.
    â€œ Geeraa! ” I howled at the smarmy heavens—except whoa, I sounded kind of pipsqueak. Never mind vocal vanity—I must fight the stinky Squidra! Except that freaking squid was nowhere in sight—and everything in sight was, um—bigger. Way mass bigger. What the fucko—had the whole world shot gonzo steroid juice when I fainted? Nuh uh—the earth was the same boring size. It was me what had shrunk—Goodbye Devilfish! Mostly ’cause I’d morphed into something way worse than any hobo, bug, or homeless virus. I’d turned— duhn duhn duhhhhh —human! Eeek! And then beaucoup more eeeks when I slogged out of that deforming HGH goo and into a Squidra-charred landscape. Hello Changeling!
    But this biped bod’s gotta be some rogue hallucination—how could something so macabre happen to moi? I can’t see it going down—mostly ’cause my new human bino-vision was totally squiggly. Really—both eyes on the same side? You fuckers are flounders. And I floundered good when I tried standing up—and flapped smack on my new nose, ow. And then stood up on—you’re kidding me—legs? Who created these wobbly honkers? Seems God was drunk in shop class again—how else explain toes? And even worse are elbows—mine were already scuffed bloody from crawling on bashed cement. Hey, I was a stingray just moments ago—we don’t do the walking—I keeled over my first four tries. Let’s flop like brave waffles! But panic’s the mother of tactics—and I had to get gone. ’Cause any minute that freak kraken would swarm back to date, mate, and polish me off. Let’s polish one off for Jesus! He’s nailed up and can’t do it himself.
    Anyway, I managed to sloppy drunk-walk through fresh wreckage, stopping now and again to marvel at my new skin. ’Cause even the wind hurt it! You bipeds are weaker than baby trout—whiny, murderous trout who yank strange beliefs from your scaly butts. But even weirder than just fragile skin was its color—mine was dusky blue. Nice hue—except everyone else is yellow! I wonder if the Japanese shun folks that don’t fit in. With a little ash and ink I could probably pass for black. Then I could kill Big Lit ’cause it owes me—Hello Quotas! All your guilt are ours.
    All your shame too—as I slunk through sodden alleys and into packed Tokyo. Where mutherfucking ow—I kept bumping my blue butt on brick walls. Probably ’cause I swayed like a used noodle—hey, it’s how us rays move. Or did before I morphed into a shivering human dolt. Why shivering? ’Cause I just heard Squidra’s mucus trill echoing off smashed girders. Grrr, grrr—this city is my holocaust! Mine! Or it was—now I’ve gone biped, turned teensy, traded my nighthawk mind for a skull crammed with gods and dead mommies. You twerps call this dink lump a brain ? And the stringy stuff on top—that’s hair? Really? And why’s it already in a crude bouffant? Hello Jack Lord! Maybe I should style the other curls down there where—eeek! My fab weenie done shrunk! To about the size of a cheap blue cigar. Hah—what a piece of pie man is—how stupid in brooding—how like a TV that only gets reruns—a poor crusty donut who smears frosting on the stage. Anyway, to recap—I’m now human, bluer than a drowned baby’s twat and stark barking naked—no wonder everyone dodged me. Especially when I lurched at them with my spaz limbs and screeched geeraa ! I was crippled, clumsy, and slow—I can be Walmart greeter?

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    I can haz McJob! So I’m a biped—now what? Should I turn wage slave and raise a drooling family? Not a bad idea—kick-start some tender human larva—and then devour them, yay! All your Donner Party are ours. It’s the only