Poor Mojo's Classic Squid: Squid "Ask The Giant Squid: The (Sunken) Island of Lost Toys"

Dear Giant Squid:

How can I possibly get all my Christmas gifts wrapped and mailed out before Christmas?

Yours,
Horace

Ah, to the Yuletide we progress hither.

There is indeed a mass to this Christ of yours, and it seems to grow with each year, the matter of the season aggregating into clumps upon clumps, so that the post cannot handle it all. Much of the mass is lost in transit, collecting in that great Lagrangian point of holiday cheer know as the San Diego terminal. And of that refuse of many a misplaced yule-time, much has collected in that terminal. I know this because every five years the transport authority disposes of the collection discretely in a deep sea trench off shore some distance.

I remember fondly the days of yore when we, the creatures of the deep, would wait in the trench for the many wondrous items of mirth and terror for which your post system cared so little.

For your edification, a brief list of the items most cherished in Yuletides past:

The Dolls Barbie. Of these, first, the squidlettes took to and started with the building of small surface buildings; of two story structures and garages and grangered barns for the storing of seed-food. The dolls are first shorn of their flaxen hair and then laid end to end, the bulbous balloon-ed heads cupped in the curve of the dainty China-female feet.

The Lingerie Sextique. To these wispy twirls of purple and mauve gather the many clawed crabs skittering along the ocean floor. Playful as ever, the crabs will come in threes to fill out the teddys and the camisole, two to the pushed-up cups, and one to peak-a-boo from through the crotch-less bottoms, his long antennae figure-eighting in the ebon stream.

The Novelty Singing Santa. The most terrifying of the detritus flung into our awaiting maws and claws and podules, these little men of red are treasured the most by our comrades of science, the eels Electrique. A chorus, or perhaps a battalion, was once assembled by a gaggle of eels and secreted away in the hollowed caverns of a great dead reef off the radiine shores of Bikini. The integrated-circuit voice-boxes, warped by sea water and corrosion and irregularly fluctuating current of the various eels, produced a wavering reel of such deepening sorrow and discontent that denizens of the sea for thousands of miles sagged for months.

The Neck Your Tie (usually of the pastoral scene). Finally, the ties of your necks with the landscapes, and the geese with red hats and the fish smiling and the deer grazing in roving packs . . . these, no creature of the sea can even gaze upon, such was their terror-engorging, putrescence.

We adolescent squiddlings— whilst the adults looked on sac-scratchingly, they being far beyond the delights of simple pupae-hood things, left to only wonder at these neck-your-ties' twisted, misbegotten hideousness— loved these most of all. Oh, how we adolescent squids— as well as the porpoises and tube worms and men-of-wars— delighted in these undulant, ghastly strips textilios, greedily gathering them up so as to festoon ourselves in an ugliness we found quaint in its excessivity. Ah, to be young again . . .

So I say to you, Horace of the earth world, however you manage to package and ship the items of the season, do not forget the playful desires of the benthic deep. Mis-address but a few choice articles so that, in their misdirection, those packages may to some point come to the Diego Saintly and be dumped forthwith into the sea.

If, however, this avoidance on my part of the actual giving of advice perturbs you, may I suggest that you insert a yule-log into your ample, nog-engorged rectum and set it afire to burn cheerily low these twelve dark nights of winter.

Yours in Saturnine Glory,
The Giant Squid