Dear Giant Squid:

How can I achieve love from the girl I love?

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Dear Anonymous Lover Much Frustrated:

Ah, the troubles d'amor. She is, soothly, the rock-of-the-bed for me as your once and future advisor columnistum. Long has it been since I fielded a query of the palpitating pump-muscle. But her history (herstory?) with me is long and tempestuous. Gaze back with me over a sampling of love-lorn queries now past:

A Catalogue of Past Columnaries d'Amor

You can see that she has been with me from the very beginning of this iteration électronique of my mission to the surface world. Given that I have dedicated these many years to the subject of your species' mating, loving and other conjugal relations, I believe I have risen to the rank of true master of the bedroom and the pump-muscle. Therefore, I believe it best, given the breadth of your question to reply with the full breadth of my genius. So, here, in unfiltered and unvarnished form, is the full and pulsing force of my wisdom:

And yet, as of this writing, your paltry communiqués were insufficient to allow me access to the full depth and breadth of your psyches (pardon my hyperbole— speaking of the "breadth" and "depth" of your paltry psycho-emotional existences is akin to lauding the guile and grace of the noble armadillo), and my assistants (living and dead) were of little assistance. Remarkably, your art has proven quite useful. I screened many films and tele-visual programs, as well as reading the vaster part of your textual output. I work still to slither through your collective, Jungian passion play.

I am particularly fond of the television show of some moments ago, the "star machine" that was Family Ties. (Incidentally, how do you train all of those monkeys to speak their lines with such passion, especially the nervous one, the one named for that feral wolf-beast. He touches me. His simpleton brain disease troubles me.)

"When I was younger I heard tell," Gloria said (forgive me, but this is a re-creation of the anecdote as best as I can remember it . . . Ms. Vanderbilt's peculiar wit and charm, I am sure, shall be lost at least partially through the filter of years), "of how the female-monkey stage-liar Jean Eagles would frequently come to the set of her newest cinematograph filming wearing a very particular and plain black jersey dress. Ruth Gordon, another such Hollywood regular, at one time visited Ms. Eagles at her domicile. Eagles came to the shelter-hole sheathed again in that very dress. Believing the situation to be fraudulent, Ms. Gordon queried: 'Do you not own any other dress?' Eagles replied: 'Come, see the hole in which I maintain my collections of textile-skins.' And they went up the stairs, deeper inside of the domicile and indeed Ms. Gordon was schooled: therein was an entire rack of dresses, all the same."

Rock leaned back and let loose a heartfelt laugh, a windy disturbance of the mouth and glottis. Gloria too opened her food-hole and exhaled uproariously. They both clawed at my tentacles, their teeth bared, their heads swaying to and fro as deadly kelp in a strong current, and in a panic I devoured them both. Dr. Teller and I worked very hard on the replicas that we later released the next day, but they were never quite as good as the friends I had lost to a moment's fear.

Ah, Francois, now that you have shuffled off the mortal coils of Government and false age, now that you have dismantled your own illusions and declared for your country your own death, now that you are free to sink among the waves, to bury your indestructible body for a thousand years in Benthic ooze, it is finally time for you to return to me. Seek me out in old New France. I live along the river in a mighty tower. We might yet find our love fresh if you but hurry now. Quickly, Francois. Quickly. I feel even now that things might change in me. But a moment separates my love from hate. I do not know or understand. Quickly.

I have seen your dark auburn curls spread upon the pillow, like so many beautiful and lithe tentacles, and I have known sorrow beyond the bounds of what your simple human heart could possibly fathom.

Puffalump, indeed. Among my species there is a saying: "More cushion, less pushin': Kevin's mom is a helluva gal." It makes more sense in our chromatic-skin language. Please send her my kindest regards.

Ha ha ha, but enough of this jovial male camaraderie-forging, you had a question which I must endeavor to answer.

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 traditionally 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 of passionate genital-rubbing embrace. On the subject of Mighty Suckers, how is your Mother, Mr. Beepers? Did she enjoy being my rutt-toy?

But something had changed. Nick could not rightly identify when that moment had been, but somewhere between forever and the next day, he had been mushed one cell into a few more and there had been a pleasant entanglement of her to her to her and from it had come him.

Why, I would duly wager that she is veritably jam packed with eggs awaiting the proper fertilization so that they might bear a truly terror-inducing race of super beings, savage and bright, vicious beyond all comprehension— a super-race of monkeymen to lay siege to your dryworld and sup full of its horrors with gusto!

Path the First: Take what, for lack of the better nomenclature, we shall call "the squid route" (please see Giant Squid F.A.Q. Part The Third, the penultimate question and answer) and enlist the aid of several of your classhorts, stalk this savage beauty, sacrifice one of your company to her wrath as distraction and then fall upon her, member tumescent, and savagely penetrate until such time as the poison ejaculates forth from your brain.

Path the Second: Abscond with yourself to some dark, fetid and chill rend in the benthic ooze and masturbate furiously, until either the fancy passes or the mating tentacle is sufficiently raw to effect a complete casting out of humpthinkings from brain pan.

Wrap your consort in the powerful grip of your tentacles and dive! Dive! Pull this desirable one to a deep cave beneath a sea ledge where you may rut, spreading your genetic material and assuring the dominance of your line.

So, in final advice to you Whorled of Atlantis I say this: Stick not the skanky bitches, for despite the loveliness of that tender dance of passion, the danger of making captive on your person the nasty-as-hell caulifloriform nodules is simply too great.

So then, Lover Much Frustrated, to be concise (a trait I tend to avoid, as brevity is the soulless twit) I now wax Polonial and say:

Stick not the skanky bitches, that tender dance of passion, of danger, of nasty-as-hell caulifloriform nodules the deep, inky purple of slatternly passion (On the subject of Mighty Suckers, how is your Mother?), of jovial male camaraderie-forging and strange marks upon your Mother's ample thighs: "More cushion, less pushin'." Veritably jam packed with eggs awaiting the proper fertilization, stalk this savage beauty, sacrifice one of your company to her wrath, fall upon her, member tumescent, savagely penetrate: The poison ejaculates forth from your brain. Abscond with yourself. Masturbate furiously; the mating tentacle is raw to effect a complete casting out.

Imagine the dark auburn curls spread upon the pillow, imagine beautiful and lithe tentacles, imagine somewhere between forever and the next day, there had been a pleasant entanglement of her to her to her to you. Wrap your consort in the powerful grip of your tentacles— Dive! Dive!— pull this desirable one to a deep cave.

Plumb the full depth and breadth of your psyches, the Jungian passion play where monkeys speak their lines deeper inside of the domicile. Loose a heartfelt laugh, a windy disturbance of the mouth and glottis, and work very hard on the replicas that will later be released, though shall not ever be quite as good as the friends you have lost to a moment's fear. Shuffle off the mortal coils of Government and false age, dismantle your own illusions and bury your indestructible body for a thousand years in Benthic ooze and cry "Return to me. We might yet find our love fresh; I feel even now that things might change in me. A moment separates my love from hate. I do not know or understand."

Attack the sexes with the gusto! And, in the immortal words of Claude, "Live the sex a long time!"

I Remain Yours,
G.S.