NEXT  >>>
 Upon signing this insurance contract, you lose all rights associated with being a human being. Once your house has been requisitioned for a brothel and your savings are sponsoring some scientologists to get on eHarmony, you will appreciate our deviousness and lack of morals.  
 Legally, we can treat you as a slave, and you can do nothing. Go ahead. Hire a bunch of lawyers, spend years in court, fritter away your savings, then come and grovel before us, your rightful masters as we say, “DOWN. DOWN CUR. ON YOUR KNEES AND BEG.”
 Our contract has been tested in every situation—infernos, floods, earthquakes, divorce, the loss of several limbs in a freak wood chipping accident—and found to be absolutely incomprehensible. It is so dense the copywriter who wrote it is in a psychiatric ward and believes her mother is a geranium. We send a Christmas card every year and a bag of compost. 
 Somewhere before, during, or after signing this agreement you will have to set up an online account with us. Be prepared to come up with a username and password so crammed full of numbers, letters, and capital letters that no one can access your account, except for hackers. In a world of technological security, we will surprise you by how quickly we can get rid of your information, like passing out the contents of your wallet to the passengers on a Greyhound bus.
 Some of the required information you may wonder about, like the location of your buried treasure, your deepest secret, why exactly you’ve been divorced three times, and the name of your best friend’s puppy. It’s all for your benefit. Really.  
 We also require your phone number. You poor, poor sucker. Ever heard of Harry from Harry’s Hairnets and Hysterectomies? Well, you’ll be hearing a lot from him. The hellhounds at the gates of Hades are less persistent and blood-curdling as Harry. You don’t have to want a hairnet. You don’t have to have hair. All Harry can sense is an open drooling wallet, like a shark who circles your house in a beat-up Toyota Corolla.    
 In case you may actually need to use your online account, you should give up and cry. While you are paying for our service, our goal is to make sure you do not use it at any time. This is called a “profit margin” and keeps the ravening masses at bay. We are in the castle. You are the sad sack peasants tilling our farms and complaining about famine, marauders, and diphtheria, whatever that is.
 Need help with something? Well, too freaking bad. Our call center doubles as a halfway house for those recently discharged from a psychiatric ward. Ask our client representative a question, and watch as the split personalities rush out and whale on you like a child and his five imaginary friends beating a piñata at a birthday party. One minute you’re dealing with a pleasant resident of Alabama; the next and apparently, you’re talking to an angry duck.  
 Our contact form won’t help you either. Our website is a graveyard littered with those who piddled away to dust trying to answer a question. If you listen closely, you can still hear their wretched wails, like people thrown in Jabba the Hutt’s pit in Star Wars.
 You’re not dealing with people here. You had to sign a document more than five pages long, which means this is an organization, one that uses words like “quantify,” “services,” and “logistics,” words that assure you with the vagueness of a murderer. I merely took aggressive action against a subject to clarify my assets. And yes, the subject may have been deposited in my closet. There are a lot of things in my closet.
 In the end, you may wonder why you still have an account with us. This is because YOU CAN NEVER CANCEL YOUR ACCOUNT. BWA HA HA HA. Like student loan payments or that funny smell from the rug you got at Salvation Army, we never go away. Maybe someone somewhere got rid of them, but it’s a myth, like leprechauns or black people in Boulder.   
 It all starts with this contract. You can never go back to the life you had before. Go ahead. Sign the line. It won’t hurt—or at least not until we start whipping you.
As with life, The Squid Weekly pairs excellently with coffee and friends
There's an email notification here, if you are the forgetful type. Or maybe you just want to get an email from someone every Friday. That's totally cool too.
There is a book available at The Trident Bookstore or Amazon.
It's eleven bucks.