Having heard of your wisdom through your loyal servants on Friendster, I have come to you seeking a solution to my dilemma.
At my office there is a woman of surpassing grace and beauty. Her skin is fair, her lips full, her breasts large. Furthermore, she is clever and humorous, fully as stimulating to the mind as she is to the body. Naturally, I am attracted to her. I have made many attempts to gain her affection and attention, but while she is pleasant to me there is no further response. To be near her every day is a torment, but to present myself boldly seems destined to lead to the end of my dreams and quite possibly my employment. What can I do? Is there any way I can convince this girl to date, or at least mate, with me? Does the Giant Squid know the solution to the terrible Office Crush?
Dear John McCoy, Seeker of Mates, Appreciator of Breasts, and Tormented Office Chimp,
Woe are we all of us who know the inability to locate the mate most proper in this topsy-turvy spun-around world. Loneliness occupies our thoughts like an eel in his cave: form-fitting, slithery, and equipped with a poison so toxic that it kills men in seconds. Or, alternately, electrical. In either case, mortal termination is indeed imminent.
When I, the Architeuthis Most Great, the Giant Squid Rex Mundi decided to campaign for the Presidency of these several States United I had considered only my crushing victory. My tentacles wrapping around the body of the previous office holder and squeezing slowly until the smirk left his chimpish face. For it is the way with cephalopodian elected officials to devour their fore-runners, absorbing their greatness and eliminating their flaws (both metaphorically and literally), and so it too shall be the way for you, John McCoy. I shall explain my plan so devious to you soonsuch, but for now I must thrust forth my agony into the public orifice and expend my troubles upon thee.
Recently, it was thus that, while my lab assistant, Rob, and I ignited the oil of midnight planning my Plank and Platform and Victory Soiree, he posed to me this question:
"So, uh, Lord A, Dude. I've been thinking—" I rejoined, at this moment, that such is a dangerous pass-the-time for such as Rob, and we giggled as one at this old jest-among-comrades. Rob then continued, "But, so, seeing as how you have to be thirty-five to be a candidate for Prez, and I'm, like, nowhere near that old and neither is creepy old Sang, like who's gonna be your veep— your running mate?"
The terminology confused me greatly, and detracted much from our forward progress, as we circled this matters heart for nearly an hour, confused as sharks in bloodchoked waters. "Running mate," I finally asked Rob, attempting to confirm the odd notion he seemed to be lying forth, "this is one who is mated to you in office, who shares power and in the case of untimely death ascends the throne?" Rob sighed the exhalation of success, seeing that he had indeed won my pleasure with his long-sought definition.
"But," I asked, "Is this not to practically request the betrayal? To purchase the dagger and offer the back-for-stabbing? Why would one such as I— intelligent, mighty, weighing of many tonnes— have need for a 'running mate'?"
Over the course of several hours Rob further explained the intricate operation of your ersatz-democracy— such an intricate bauble!— especially concerning the Veep's primary responsibility: To wit, in performing tasks seen as odious or tedious. The Veep did that which I would not want to do. He was the catcher of the flak, the hostage of choice, and would take the bullets meant for my fleshy body-sac. Also, Rob explained, he presided over the soon-to-be-demolished Senate.
Now, John McCoy, maybe you can perceive with your primitive forebrain the eventual course of mine narrative most exquisite: I have need of a running mate.
What qualities am I seeking in such a mate?, was the query I posed in countless gedenken experiments. Evil, might, perseverance, a cunning intelligence, no regard for human life— all of these must be held by my fleet-footed mate.
My initial list of potential election-mates was thus: Cthulhu, Joe Loverman, Lyndon LaRouche, Ralph Nadir, Asimo the Robot, Arnold Schwarzenegger, and Galactus.
Quickly Cthulhu was ruled out. One cannot fulfill one's job of office if one is always slumbering. When the Sleeper Who Dreams to Neverwake is always a-slumber, then who will slop my hogs and cast the tie-to-break votes in the soon-to-expire Representative Congress? I have explained this to Tom. Or was it Rob? Well, at any rate, it was explained. I can only be explaining so often before the disembowelments must begin. The hours run shorter with each passing annum, and explaing is long and painful, while the evisceration is short and sweet.
Lyndon La Roach was ruled out for similar reasons. Also, I am to understand he is much a stock to laughter. I would never risk defaming my office by associating with suchsorts. It is unseemly.
Asimo is gentle, hard-working, and respectful of his fore-bearers. These are also detestable qualities in a vice-despot.
This narrows my list down to the muscled and eloquent Austrian, Arnold; the purple horned devourer of worlds, Galactus; the fighting man for the common man, Ralph To Swim; and Joe Liebermann.
At this turn, it came to my attention that my recent lab intern, Molly Reynolds, is acquired of 37 years of this earth, and is thus a plausible mate. I said as much to Rob, indicating what a suitable mate I found Molly to be, for the running and such, and noted a great and sudden reddening of his visage. "Would she not be a good mate?" I repeated, fearing Rob had misheard and become a-frightened, "Would not Molly be one such good and wonderful mate? She is pleasing of the eye, it seems, to many of your species, and is a great organizer of lists and handler of details. Very conscientious. Would she not be such a mate? A great mate?" Rob stuttered and stammered some little bit with his clumsy grunt-lips, then swiped his hands back through his head hairs several times, knocking the inverted baseballing cap from atop his cranium. "Oh, yeah. She's totally, like, suitable. Totally. It's just, like. I mean, yeah, some mate. Right"
Rob then abruptly went on to voice great concerns in this matter. Firstly, though he was quite certain a constitutional amendment had permitted women to vote for the president and vice-president, he was uncertain whether this did or did not bear with it the parallel honor of running for president and veepresident. Further, he was concerned that, owing to matters of gentle nature and menstrual bleeding, women might well be totally inappropriate to such an office. I rejoined with the popular squid tale of "Helen the Destroyer of Worlds and the Littlest Lost Robot," which—well, which is a bit lengthy to detail now, but made my point excellent-well, I thought.
John, I have not forgotten you. For it is now that our narratives do tail-the-dove. Once I have my Veep chosen, how do I approach them to ensure the parity of party?
An idea, I had. What if I were to test my mates-to-be by pressing them with this question—with YOUR question? At my behest, Rob contacted the eminently mate-able Molly and showed her your letter, John.
When Rob returned, he reported his findings. "Heya, uh, Lord A. Molly said, like, no way. If this reader here, John, is after some chick and she isn't interested and he keeps asking her, and she still isn't interested, then it's like stalking and shit."
"But, she also said that what he could do was try to, um, shit. Lemme remember. Oh, yeah. He could try and change the context of their relationship. Y'know, like showing her that he isn't just a guy she works with, but also has interests oustide of work. And to try and paint himself as a whole person."
"She also said that listening was good. And that most guys don't listen at all. And laugh at her jokes. Y'know, if she makes them. That's what Molly said."
This is wisdom indeed, John McCoy, from the opposite mouth of the sex it comes. To recap, and to translate from the fluent gurgle-chimp that lackey-Rob speaks with: to successfully bed or entice a mate who is at first re-luctant, one must present oneself as a full and complete being. At this I shall have not the trouble, for who is more full than 35-ton-large moi? One must also listen. Again need I mention my nigh-perfect auditory canals? And thirdly, laugh at your mate-to-be's witticisms. My laughter is superb, and far louder than any other. It can break glass and cause mammals to cower in ancient terror for yards around. My mates-of-running do not stand a chance.
So, then, in final, please find below a form for voting. (Vote Early, Vote Often, VOTE SQUID!) As I will be elected forthwidth by the voting public, so shall democracy reigh one last time and you, the suffraged populace, will choose who might make the best of the running mates. In the case that I have neglected to mention a suitable candidate, please feel free to contact me via the mail electronique so that I might consider the appropriateness of any and all suitors.
Your Giant Squid
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Copyright (c) 2000, 2004, David Erik Nelson, Fritz Swanson, Morgan Johnson