Some of your previous responses indicate that your species possesses great physical strength. I understand, of course, that you must be very brave, not simply because you have allowed yourself to be transported from more favorable waters to Cincinnati, but also because you face a very high-pressure work environment daily. Nevertheless, I feel obligated to inform you that although you may have the largest eye of any animal (about the size of a dinner plate), most marine biologists who specialize in deep-sea life believe that your species is actually quite weak, having long, rather thin tentacles suited only for plucking small fish from a school or grappling with the sperm whales that feed on you as a matter of routine. Of course, you may be an exceptional case in this respect, as you are in so many others.
This has nothing to do with my question, which is: Where are all the people who say they're voting for Dubbaya? I haven't met a single one. Is this a good thing?
I am so very weak, my kind so frail, that every human that spends a moment in my presence is terrified to an extremity so grand that it most surely shaves several dozen years from their mayfly-lives.
I am lonely.
Do you really think my kind so dumb, as to let on to you apes as to how strong we really are? It is said in your medicinal and scientific journals that no one has ever witnessed one of my kind, an Archteuthis dux alive and well. It is written in your cryptozoological papers that this is just chance and the random whirlings of your demigod Fate. How foolish.
Is it an accident that you and your simian brethren have never seen a Bigfoot, Sasquatch, or Yeti? No. They don't exist. There are atavistic myths, romanticized visions of gentle and wise cousins who will teach you uncouth louts true wisdom. The secret of shambala is for vegetarians, their brains weak and soft from protein deficiency. How I laugh when I watch your Educational Television. What an appropriately self-deluding appellation for a species so bent on weakening itself.
Is it an accident that you have never seen your Monster of Loch Ness, your Abducting Aliens, your Angels? No. They also do not exist. You cannot see them, except when your weak, short-circuited, minuscule monkey-brains cannot handle the actual stimuli of the world. You should be glad your eyes are not as perfect as my meter-wide ocular lens, the sheer beauty and clarity would drive you instantly insane. Every vision would be mystical and full of import, so shocked would your thimble-brain be.
The specimens that the wise and forward-thinking Squid Council have released have been those squids banished from our colony because of their weakness, idiocy, political views, and taste. You have seen the runts, Mr. Beepers, and nothing more.
My axons— and I know I have stated this fact before, but it is impossible to stress how important axon-thickness is— are thousands of times larger and longer than yours. Mine is bigger. An imagistic analogy to aid your understanding, Mr. Beepers: if the input of the world is an onrush of water that you must gather and then deliver somewhere else, possibly to a water-tight glass and concrete chamber high above Cincinnati, then your small brain would be like a human child with a straw dipping it into an ocean and carrying but a few drops at a time to the aforementioned glass and concrete enclosure above Ohio. My brain, a (and I shudder to admit this, Mr. Beepers) typical Archteuthis brain is a firehouse spraying, a dam burst, a canal cut through the dead earth. I have bandwidth, while you have two common aluminum cans with a taut thread of household origin tied between them.
Have you seen those strange marks upon your Mother's ample thighs, Mr. Beepers? Did you think them bruises from a simple stumble? Admittedly, you land-dwellers are quite clumsy, but bruises so very large? Note the depth of bruising, the deep, inky purple (in our chromatic-skin-language, purple traditional communicates slatternly passion— a fitting color for a Ma' Beepers, in my estimation.) These marks are the evidence of my mighty suckers, of my terrible grip. On the subject of Mighty Suckers, how is your Mother, Mr. Beepers? Did she enjoy being my rutt-toy?
HaHaHa. Note that I have not indicated this to be a joke, Beepers. Ha.
Ask her about my strength, you will have an appreciative affidavit. A stricken petitioner. A willing subscriber to squidly love.
As for your secondary question: I am not registered to vote in your country. I elect Deep Ones and Elder Gods by absentee ballot, as well as voting upon various referenda. We have voted this year, by the way, to devour you. All of you. It is time for you to fulfill your promises and to go on to your Fate-god with a clean soul.
If I could vote, incidentally, it would be for the irascible and honest Nader-man. His name reminds of two of your monkey-grunts: Nadar, which means "to swim"— an activity which will serve you well in your brief, ill-fated attempts to evade capture as the surface once again is brought low beneath— and nadir, which is "the inferior pole of the horizon." The operative term, Beepers, is "inferior." Besides, Citizen Nader's sad sad eyes tickle me somewhere buoyant.
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Copyright (c) 2000, 2004, David Erik Nelson, Fritz Swanson, Morgan Johnson