Why do I always pick one of two women:
B- Women with boyfriends
C- Red heads
and how do I avoid this conundrum?
I assume it's a curse from my fore-fathers, who were sea-faring vikings, for I have fallen many times also for the red-haired fiery women of Irish and Scandinavian descent. Please help me.
Your Dear Admirer And Loyal Companion,
Of initial mostforth interest to me, in this query, is that you begin by announcing a problem two-parted, and then name three parts of that two, going one in excess, in parts, of the named size of the whole. This confused greatly, until I recalled my own treatise brief and true on the matters of numbers, their significancies.
You name, first, a problem of twos ("I always pick one of two women")— we recall that Two is Duplicity, it corresponding to the tentacle immediately adjacent to the Primary, Generative Arm of Mating. And, are you not duplicitous in this saying "I have a problem of twos" and then revealing a problem tri-partitie?
In the second part, you enumerate three items (that of the Lesbians, Women Boyfriended and Reddened Heads.) Three is, as we recall, Fury. Expansion below on this theme, you may be sure (although, at least in its most brief examination, what malesort can fail to see the associations of females and fury? The line, simply put, is too clear to ignore— nor imagine the crossing.)
Finally, take to note well that the second number exceeds the first by one, who is the Maker, the Mating Tentacle, Glorious Be, itself primary and alone, yet next to useless in the absence of the other nine.
So then, do we not proceed forward by beginning in the lastmost part and bending back toward beginning? We know true, do we not, that all begins with the One, the Primary, the Maker, the number of the difference betwixt that which you said you might ask, and those things you actually queried— and this matter is indeed a matter of Maker, is it not? The proper recipient thereof, and problems of finding placement for? You are right to be fearful of the Three, Fury, of those three classes naméd, and can we plausibly deny that the source of this problem is indeed a matter of Duplicities, the Two, most grave?
It is at the beginning we end, with the very founding source of the problem you desire advision toward, and thus the answer to that very problematicon: It is a matter of Duplicity.
You need not advision on the fairer, mightier, sex— you need advice upon yourself. Your forever selection among the Furious Three draws fault, itself, from your own Duplicity, your tending to deny the original basis of these selection most star-crosséd and ill-of-advice.
Consider those few classes among whom you select:
So then, in final, you, Delicious the Rick, always pick from among this Triumvirate of Destruction because your verily wish for death. My advice: bite of the bullet, inhale of the gas, partake of the rope-dance. End of swift, abbreviate of the suffering.
Freud, the Mentalist Kingruler of all Stinkchimps, had a great variety of words to spill upon the page of the "death wish," and the general deathward tendencies of man. Humans have many organs that we Architeuthian majesties do not. One of these is the anus. King Freud of the Mentats claimed that partaking of sex through the anus was in reality a wish for death. Not having an anus my own true self (and, admittedly, having only Rob's anatomical films and magazines as reference, a rather bit fuzzel-headed on the exact biological purpose of the anus), I am forced to believe his statement. It stands to reason, then, by the law of the much-mentioned mathematics and things numerical, that if anus-sex is a death-wish, then a wish for death is also a wish for the "hardcore cherry-tight all-anal action," as the notices and reviews on Rob's quaint films turn-the-phrase.
Maychance, instead of natives of Lesbos, the mated, and those crowned with both hair and tempers of inflame, you simply wish for the proverbial "four-quart shootin' dick in the ass." I must credit this last interpretive turn to Rob who, it seems, is an armchaired enthusiast of the study of human psychology, as well as of human gross anatomy. Nonetheless, when I suggested that this was a pathology he, having a puny human mating tentacle, might well address and endeavor to cure you of, Rob stepped away from my tank, hands held in air, palms out, head a-shaking left to the right. "Nuh-unh," he grunted, "I'm cool with all that, if that's your shit, but ole Rob ain't takin' or givin' on the down-low."
Rickard, I am a philanthropic cephalopod, as any reader of this glorious column will certainly confirm. I wish to help humanity, to raise it out of the clinging mud before enslaving it with my benthic might. If you need the Ass-cocking, I have ten tentacles of sizes varied that may well suffice. Though it is a dirty job, one must rise to the doing. I am, humbly, at your service to service you. At the risk of sounding immodest, has any other presidential candidate offered to aid you in this matter? I think not![*]
Perhaps you wish for death, perhaps you enjoy rejection, perhaps you just need the "good and deep dicking." But be assured this: In the end, in this the best of all possible worlds, it is all for the best.
The Giant Squid
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Copyright (c) 2000, 2004, David Erik Nelson, Fritz Swanson, Morgan Johnson