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Squid #144
(published July 24, 2003)
Notes From The Giant Squid: Lord High Shitkicker, Atari Champion, and Lord-Architeuthis-for-a-Week in the Muthafuckin' Hizzouse!

Who is Poor Mojo's Giant Squid?
Giant Squid, here's the situation.

I had totally random sex with a guy I went to high school with and ran into recently and started hanging out with. It was amazing. They say sex in a hot tub is overrated, but it is not. This was possibly the best sex ever. I'm sure you know all about buoyancy factors involved with water-lovin'. I know he is involved with other girls, and yet I'm ok with that. I know he isn't committing to any women right now. I kind of would like to have him as a part-time boyfriend, you know? 'Cause there are a lot of guys I'd like to meet, date, etc., but it'd be nice to be able to keep this thing going too. Am I doomed if I follow that course? And yes, obviously all the sex being had is protected.

Thanks, Giant Squid.


My dearest Therese:

I am forced to utter much thanks to you, coupled (HAH!) with a warning: do not trust the advice dispensed this week.

My wisdom is legendary, and my advice has never steered a single being wrongly. I have an A+, a perfect score, I am "Batting the thousand." But that may change.

Be aware, simian-kin, that I have lost this week's round of the Old-School-Atari-Shit Championship to Rob, my chimpanzeeesque (yet nonetheless homo sapienic) lab assistant. The competition was fierce, and although I have been training, and also requesting that the lab's head, Sang, insert ketamine into Rob's morning oated meal, it has been no help.

I hereby refuse to play anon of the Old-School-Atari-Shit monkey-games. They are clearly biased against my kind, with their poor response times and anthropoidal heroes. But "Every Canine Enjoys His Victory", no? And today Rob is that canine.

The stakes of the wager of the Shit-Game were thus: He who won would be Lord for the week. And Rob has won. For the next week I must—for honor binds me true as tightly as a cyborg exo-skeleton used to crush a foolish janitor's skull while he sleeps—address Rob as "Lord High Shitkicker, Atari Champion."

I made the wager assured of my victory. I had bested Rob in nearly every Atari-Shit game that we had engaged in. The Combat, the Pole Position, the Adventure. In every category I was his master, his Lord, his Superior Entity.

But yesterday, during our tournament, he exhibited skills the likes of which I have never witnessed in a Human-Ape, let alone an idiot man-child. The cunning, dexterity, and coordination were nigh-unto-Whaleish. As the water is transparent, so was his ruse: Rob had "schooled" me, I had been "Hustlered" like Larry of Flint.

To be clear: Rob had knowingly underperformed and played with less than his customary ability, so as to lull me into a false sense of confidence and skill. So lulled, I was an "Easy Mark" for a disastrous wager. I shall watch Rob more carefully now, and may have to step up the Plan and the Timetable.

But, indeed, one doubts not the veracity of the saying old: "Beware the Hubris." Oh, how I wary it now, once bitten and thus twicely shy.

Also in the stakes was the right to answer this week's question. So I warn you Therese, unlike the dulcet and measured tones of crystalline advice that I pronounce upon the world—causing spontaneous joy and introspection wherever they travel, like a band of minstrels composed of my Architeuthian syllables—Rob's advice will be little more than the common, vulgate utterances of a liar and a hustler and a cheat and a stinkchimp. Do not loan money to this knuckle-scraper, he will not know what to do with it and will be as likely to eat it as to insert it into his rectum.

But aside, these matters of shame and regret. With my caveat put forth, I give you Lord High Shitkicker, Atari Champion, the Hardest Working Mammal in Detroit, Mr. Please Please Please, Mr. Dyno-Mighty, . . . Rob:

Uhh, so, yeah. Shit, here I am. Lord Fuckin' A of all I survey for a week and resident Love Doctor and Sexuologist, Rob.

Therese, this guy, like, clearly digs you, right? I mean, he got busy and did the dirty with ya in the hot tub—although, it prolly wasn't too dirty what with all the water, right? Unless you really worked at it, y'know? Or if it was a back-door delivery, with extra santorum and all. But, whatever rocks your boat, right?

You already have a connection with this dude. Y'all went to school together, and you've been hanging out so he's prolly as much into you as you are into him. And if the hot-tub sex was really kickin', then, shit, he'll be up for more.

But, man, I gotta tell ya, you gotta be real fuckin' careful about hot-tub sex. I did the bone-dance with this chick in a hot tub once down in Ohio, while I was on this otherwise sucky Spring Break trip. And we were, like, going at it real for a while and I tried to switch positions a bit and totally slipped and smashed my nose into the side of the tub. There was blood everywhere—cause man, a nose fuckin bleeds. And contrary to some pervos out there, blood is so not a turn-on on a one night stand in a Spring Break place. The hotel is, like, totally full of these Christian pamphlets talkin' 'bout sex=death and HIV and AIDS and weird weepy cock blisters and shit—the message is clear: blood just seems like totally toxic. So, I slip and smash my beak into the pool and spray blood all over this girl, who up til now had been really into this hot-tub sex deal, and she just freaks the fuck out and shoves me back hard and I hit the other side of the pool and bash the back of my head open.

She runs off, dripping with my blood and screaming like a horror movie. Which is just what we look like, right? Cause we're both blood-splattered and I'm leakin' blood from front and back, and I'm all dizzy from the pot and the gin and the hot tub and the sex and, to drive the point totally fuckin home, the pints of blood pouring down my face and back. Only, I'm like a 22-year-old guy who was just, y'know, fucking, so I still have this mad-crazy hard-on. And the hot tub we were fucking in was like next to a big pool full of other Spring Breakers. So they see this bloody girl start screaming and running away from 'em, and they see me all stumbling and moaning and blood-soaked and, well, erect. And some of the redneck Buckeyes in the tub get the wrong idea and think I've like, done something to the chick I was just boning. So they get all beatdown on my ass and I more or less pass out and wake up in the hospital with a cracked rib, a bunch of bruises and nine stitches in the back of my head which they shaved first so I'm totally pissed 'cause I'd totally been growing it out, and it was just starting to get good.

And the hotel totally charged me for disinfecting the hot tub. Which sucked.

So the lesson here is to be careful with the water-lovin', and to like never have sex in Ohio.

Oh, uh, and go for this guy. He's totally interested. Just keep it loose while keepin' it tight (yeah!) and make it clear you just want an occasional thing. You might even wanna say 'fuckbuddy' or 'friends with privileges' or whatever chicks say now, 'cause some guys are pretty dense. Who knows, it may work out so well that it becomes a Thing with a capital 'T'.

Also, like, do you have a number or somethin'? 'Cause, maybe, I'll be, like, down your way sometime and we can work some shit out, right?

That's that. Over and out, T-Gal. You's the freak, and I loves you for it, baby! All hail Rob-o, Lord High Shitkicker, Atari Champion, and Lordy Lordy Lord Architeuthis for the week!

Rob's advice is interesting. I advise to mate often and frequently, especially in the water, as its tender and adamantine embrace greatly reduces the likelihood of the horrible pressurelessness of the surface world to cause your body sac to explosively decompress in the Terrible Dry Upspace.

Therese, we advise you pursue this mate and bed him until he bores you. Then devour him, as is well and fit, find a new mate and continue the cycle. Finally, unless you are prepared to spawn a brood of several hundred offspring to carry forth your glorious genetic line, always utilize the protections.

From the Depths,

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