A Rant on Tentacle Porn and the True Masters of the planet

I totally need to write a rant on tentacle porn and the true master race of the world. Totally!

Think about it. All those paintings of fishermen’s wives being sexed up by tentacled sea monsters. How far back do those paintings go? Okay, 1800s. Not that far back. But still. Tentacle porn starting in the 1800s. With the possibility that prior instances may have preceded it (wouldn’t be surprising).

And then there’s Cthulhu. The dark god, destroyer of worlds. Looks like he came into popular literature in the early 1900s. Huh. Wonder what was going on in the world at the time that might have created that kind of zeitgeist.

Tentacle porn
Tentacle porn

Anyway. Powerful, predatory, sensual, sexual squid things (and octopi) exist at the margins of those time periods. Seducing pearl divers on their good days, overwhelming the fragile minds of men on the bad days.

What if, what if…. in reality, we were their servant race. Slave race. Whatever you want to call it. Minions. Peeps. And they ruled the world, and had us two legged things to run around on land arranging things to their content. But then some enemy came, some mysterious enemy came, from which they couldn’t hope to defend themselves. It would be war. Death. Destruction. Human servant peeps tossed this way and that. Messy.

So instead, they all convened–or maybe they didn’t need to convene, maybe they communicated telpathically to each other– and agreed to sink deep under the seas and hide there. For however long it took the danger to pass. Leaving their servants, or slaves depending on whether they were Torries or Whigs, behind above the land. Wandering around kinda aimlessly, not knowing their purpose in life. Trying to find it, trying to come up with meaning and goals, but ultimately feeling kinda lost and confused. Poor little peeps.

And the enemy, it leaves the confused little fellers alone. Maybe it doesn’t know what they are. Maybe it does, and doesn’t care. Why go for abandoned hampsters?

Maybe, in fact, these deep sea tentacled world masters have been in hiding for longer than we know. The truly great stay below, growing into their full strength. The smaller ones serve as spies and scouts to the world above. Where, if they’re small enough, they sometimes get caught, dunked into formaldehyde and then dissected by bored little peeps who, in another reality, would have been serving their every whim. Or getting captured and put in cages by peeps who ought to have been providing some sexings instead of taking notes and babbling.

What if this has been going on for centuries. Millennia. And they’ve erased most of our knowledge of them. Maybe they sank Atlantis.

Maybe, maybe their great enemy is the whales. The largest of the whales. You sometimes see them scarred, with tentacle marks crossing their skin.

Maybe there has been a great battle between the sea behemoths. Maybe we worshipped both once, but the mammalian whales struck marketing gold when they hooked up with the dolphins and sent them out to help the poor stupid two-legs things that keep falling off their boats. They don’t swim so good. Get ‘em out before they pee in the water.

Maybe we have been the unwitting audience, missing the greatest battle of our planet, silently waging on the depths of the sea floor.

And while the gods of our era (squids and whales, kids, squids and whales) engage in their titanic struggles, we little two-legs-peeps-servant things are still trying to figure out our purpose, and we keep poking at shiny rocks that burn, and digging for oil, and putting crap into the air (with no one to tell us not to, since the big guys are underwater and totally ignoring us). And maybe, just maybe, after centuries of struggle, their battle ends in a wash of plastic bottles and pollution.

The great war is ended. What few remain struggle off to hiding places in hopes of healing. In hopes of raising their civilizations again, and finding whichever little fucker it was went and got the whole planet fucked up. And meanwhile, we keep wandering around on land, with our strange hats and shoes and shit, totally unaware of our impending doom, and occasionally giggling over dirty pictures of a cute Japanese diver girl getting sexed up by a bunch of amorous octopi.

Well, until the probe comes and starts wailing in the air over San Francisco and there are no fucking whales left to answer and the giant squid down below are thinking, “Yes! The plan will work. The whales are dead, and now this dumb probe will kill off the walkie-incompetent-peep things–and really, who let them stop worshiping us? That was a totally bad idea. But all we gotta do is chill and relax on our deep sea sofas and divans and wait for life as they know it to go kaput. Then the whole place is ours again. Rock.”

Until, of course, the peeps figure shit out because, man, they did that whole space travel thing in the time that they had no squids to worship, and hey, if you’re going to pick a purpose, building spaceships to fly to the stars is a pretty good one.

And so the peeps ruin it again, and the squids wake to silence as the probe stops wailing and goes away, and that wasn’t quite supposed to happen that way and then they hear it.

The ancient enemy.

Is back.


I guess I can take that rant off the to do list.