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Squid #173
(published April 1, 2004)
Notes from the Giant Squid: To Bed In Turn

Who is Poor Mojo's Giant Squid?
dear giant squid,

i desperately want to bed a certain watery mollusk's intern. i just don't know how to catch her eye. perhaps you, being a watery mollusk with an intern can give me some first hand advice.

also, since i'm writing, is it wrong to prefer trannies to women who look like men?


ps i know it's sex with an octopus, but have you seen that nick zedd triple projection with the octopus fucking that chick? i forget which one, he's so fucking messy. probably whoregasm, war is menstrual envy, or thrust in me. i have a feeling it's thrust in me. anyway, choice arthouse shit.

Dearest LaDouche, the second and forty of the line LaDouche:

You raise the multiplicitous of issues important, and I shall endeavor to deal with each "in turn." —HA HA HA, do you see with your own eye what I have there done? Slowly I have come around to a better understanding of the play of the words common among those who speak with the brutal and blunt instrument of sound, and while it has not the subtle glories and passing delicacies of the dialectica chromatique it can still, as with the homo-phonics, have its pleasures. (And so you do not the jest miss, I explain thusly: I say to you "in turn" and by that I mean "along the sequence" as each question was posed, it shall also be answered . . . but what is humorous, and I do think this a pleasant jape, the phrase "in turn" when said aloud by the flexing of your meaty orifice used both for speaking and for consuming flesh [and, as I have noticed on occasion, for the expelling of unwanted food when the primary expulsion method is for some reason inadequate] "in turn" can be made in some sonic sense to resemble the word you have presented me with . . . that is, the word "intern.") Ha! Marvelous! so, now, on with your question.

OK, dude, this is Rob talking at ya, doing my covert copyeditorial thang right on up behind the Lord Architeuthis' back. When Lord A had me print this question off and tape it to the side of his tank so he could think on it, I knew right then that I had to get in on this shit and set your ass right. But, like, first off: what the fuck is Lord A getting on about? Is it, like, some ass-fucking thing? Like turning her over? What the fuck? Does his kind even have asses to joke about people fucking in?

To the matter the first: You are presented with a challenge. A certain aquatic mollusk is possessing of an intern whom you wish to bed. And I say to you, is this mollusk marine or freshwater, is this mollusk shelled or unshelled, and is this mollusk named Demetrious?

And who the fuck is Demetrious? See, Lord A is too innocent and naive to get your shit, Mike the Douchebag— ours is a world he doesn't understand and all— but I'm not. See, this is just more shit with people wanting to get with Molly Reynolds, the Lord A's totally fucking hot 39-year-old intern. She'd be a MILF, but she isn't married or have any kids, so she's a 39YOIILF, and that's even fucking hotter.

To the reason I ask: There is a certain mollusk, a large irradiated freshwater snail that had been living in the heat-exhaust system of the Palisades Nuclear Power Plant along the Lake Michigan shore, and his name is Demetrious. And he has recently, by way of certain well applied bribes, secured a position in the department of Homeland Security as a Nuclear Safety Consultant ("Nuclear Safety"? Ha! What Demetrious knows not of "Nuclear Safety" could fill a smoldering radioactive crater that was once a major U.S. city. This is the problem of a government for, by and composed of human textile-monkeys: petty graft.) Furthermore, it is my understanding that said Demetrious, lacking in qualities though he does, has managed to hire his own intern, a buxom young chap of thirty and three, ruddy and pliable, limber of flesh and mind. I believe all of these actions have fallen, one after the other, due to a certain envy that Demetrious has vis a vis my ascendancy betwixt the worlds Human and Mollusk, and natural charm and je ne sais quoi. And if it is to this office situation that you refer, I can only say that Demetrious' work is entirely without merit and that any intern he might have in his employ would only be a specimen of the lowest quality, intellectually, physically and sexually.

Yeah, she's totally fucking hot, but a douche like you, Mike, I wouldn't even wish you on a fucking ugly chick.

Now, as to the colloquially identified locomotives— these "trannies" as you label them— and their relative attractiveness compared to human females that display masculine traits, I suppose, though the concept of morality is but vaguely grasped by me, that to prefer in the matters of the heart is essentially a personal choice. It is no more "wrong" to prefer the locomotives for bedding then to prefer the motor bikes for the sodomizing, or the silken kites for the mutual masturbation? Am I right to be possessed of such a moral notion? To love is to love, correct? Whether it be train or Toyota, deep sea worm or asteroid, one's self or one's other? One cannot question the matters of the heart or hearts.

I mean, shit, the way you fucking talk about her "a certain mollusk's certain intern that i certainly want to bed"— she isn't a fucking object, man, for you to doll up and toss on a pile a coats and grind into for 5 microseconds with your two inch noodle and leave wet. She's a fucking woman, dude, a fucking lady with a little fucking class— and that's a lot more than a fuck like you's got!

Oh, and that trannie she-male shit? Man, you are one pathetic fuck, first fronting like you could even lick the shoes of a fine human specimen like Molly Reynolds, and then going off about your thing for Helga of Lickenzedicken— man. You are just too fucking pathetic. Lord A is right, man: Go fuck a train. Or, shit, better yet: face down track, spread your cheeks like that goatse.cx mutherfucker, and let the train fuck you. Fucker.

In closing, it is rather the shame that you are so smitten with Demetrious' inferior intern and locomotive conveyances. I am myself possessed of a fine intern, Molly Reynolds, and would be much amenable, in the name of goodwill and kindliness, to sign the appropriate release forms, or what have you, so as to permit such a bedding. Ah mi. A world of desires unfulfillable, is it not?


I Remain,
Your Giant Squid

P.S. No. I do not, in fact , know anything about the Nicholas Zedd of Lower Manhattan, I was never an assistant talent scout for his corporation Nick Zedd Sinema, nor did I ever engage the services of one Melissa Seven-Arms (stage name for an unnamed octopoid "exotic" talent) for his film making escapades, or more pointedly, for any post-filming escapades involving the blood of ten dobermans and the gentle dendrites of a thousand crow brains. I can assure you, as a presidential candidate (Vote Squid!), I have always and will always maintain the highest of standards, and would not even know how to contact one Mr. Zedd. And to the family of Ms. Seven-Arms (now Six-Arms), while I neither confirm nor deny any of the alleged allegations that may or may not have been made, I do express my sincerest wishes that your daughter recover forthwith, and with all alacrity. Thank you, and good night.

P.S. No, but I saw this website once, maybe that Stile Project shit, with a girl having sex with some eels. I mean the website had pictures of that, not that I was hanging out with a chick who was having sex with eels while looking at web shit. (Sang is totally right about my shitty grammar becoming an issue. I hardly know what the fuck I'm saying these days.) Whatever. Fucked up. Keep you're mollusk fucking chicks to yourself, and keep your tentacles off the Mollster. Fuckwad.

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