by Steve Aydt

I once saw a man shove an entire hot buttered squid up his ass . It frightened me and I would have to agree with Mark Twain that "a man who would stick a squid in his own butthole has little hope of ever becoming a congressman." Or at least this was true when he wrote it. In general, I disapprove of the entire "sport" of squid-stuffing, even when it is done for religious reasons. Apparently this has lately caught on among the nouveau polymorphously perverse who claim to get some sick thrill from the fact that squids have both male and female genitalia and that the "female" squid must be fertilized by the insertion of the "male" squid's penis in her mouth; that "she" will bite off the offending pecker if the "male" does not perform a satisfactory courtship dance. The Freudian mind reels in terror when confronted with the unnatural horrors of the animal kingdom. I mean, have you ever inserted your finger into a squid ? How about two ? There's something that feels like teeth in there that I just don't want to think about. Then there are the times when you might be tempted to commit frottage by allowing the slimy head of this repulsive creature dangle from your fly, working it up and down the peach-fuzzed butt-crack of some giggly nymphette at the Rod Stewart Back-From-The-Dead Concert. Then, just when she is caught up in the forbidden spasms elicited by that clammy mollusk action, you manipulate its head and spurt torrents of ink down her legs. This furtive pastime is much healthier than that strange ritual indulged in by known homosexuals, one of whom will wear hip-waders and jauntily sport a rod-and-reel, fifty pound test line secured to a lard-coated (live !) squid protruding from his partner's hairy anus, tentacles waving frantically, clutching assorted lifestyle accessories. A surgeon friend of mine shuddered as he confessed that the Parkland Hospital has performed no fewer than 47 emergency procedures called Geddasquidouttamies. Egad ! Of course there are all of the sly references to Captain Nemo at the better show-tune piano bars, but they can't fool us. Likewise those poor lonely people who had the misfortune to answer a personal ad in the Dallas Observer which begins: "I have ten legs and am coated with non-petroleum lubricant..." And since the squid is both vaginal and phallic in appearance, it isn't hard to see why it has become a favored prop at many of Dallas's fine gentleman's clubs; big squid for the act and tiny pasty-sized calumari fastened to nipples by sheer suction.

I am not the kind of totalitarian megalomaniac who would place restrictions on the sale of squids at Vietnamese markets. Nor do I grudge those sick, twisted fuckers for their multi-tentacled love slaves. No, I am merely advocating a return to times of greater moral fiber when people would indulge in simpler pleasures, i.e. men injecting morning glory nectar up their urethras and lying nude in rooms filled with hummingbirds, and the run on tapirs as "the lonely gal's
long-snouted pet pal." But I think that extremism in its many forms can be dangerous, like the many cars with bumper stickers proclaiming: "You Will Take My Squid When You Pry It From My Rigid Cock." Sheesh !

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