Now I’m hovering over your residence with my tentacles dangling. When you look up, you see my atrocious lip-hole and its tongue protruding and writhing. Once the act of insertion is completed, I begin to woo the sink; now I come back swollen purple. Don’t tell your adult children, who are visiting you, that there is a squid on the loose in your abode . . . ah, never mind: it’s too late; they’re all screaming in fear. Some of them try to run away, but I slurp them up like morsels of beef. Ooh, and look now, my friend: There is an army of miniature squids, slimy and blue, creeping out of your drain — quaint ham-shaped baby octopuses swarming all over and vomiting gravy. I spawned this litter while you were not looking. Now I sing “Jesus loves the little squidlings,” and their stench is pungent.
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