Congratulations on Locating the Device Those Aliens Implanted In Your Wife!

It made for a pretty good sex game these last few years: find the alien tracking device implanted inside your wife. It let you explore a lot of things you might have engaged with if you didn’t have a good excuse to try them: nasal, anal and aural all had their rightful place in your sexcapades as long as you were looking for that device.

You even worked in blood play (what if it’s in her blood?), breath play (lungs!) and something called kidney play (interstitial redacted). But none of these fetishes really bore fruit. You started talking to doctors (real ones) and sexperts (not real doctors) to come up with new ways to explore your wife’s body, hoping to discover the tracking device that those aliens use to find her, even when you’re fucking in the woods, and take unfortunate pictures of her while the two of you are boning.

Today you’re going to find it, and boy are you ever going to be embarrassed.

You’ll be fucking your wife doggy style for the first time since the abduction four years ago and, in the throes of passion, you’ll slap her ass good and hard. As your palm impacts her buttock you’ll make a strong, hard sound, and you’ll feel something, something unfamiliar. You’ll give her another slap just to be sure and there it will be again: something small, rigid, immobile and hard. You’ll stop moving inside her mid thrust and rest your hand on the mass, puzzling over it for a moment.

“Honey,” you’ll say. “I think I found it.”

The two of you will cease your erotic intermission, disentangle yourselves from one another, put on clothes and head to the doctor’s office. Once there a CAT scan will reveal an object unlike anything the radiologist has ever seen. We wish we could tell you that this would be the end of your weird sex times and alien related troubles, but really this will just spark a heated chase that will lead to some really dark stuff going down between you, your wife, your radiologist and a young, impressionable lady FBI agent with really nice hair and skin. We suggest you make the best of it.

Congratulations on Locating the Device Those Aliens Implanted In Your Wife!

Congratulations Professor Octopus!

Professor Octopus, we love you!

You teach at an undersea university, each student equally important in your eyes.

“You should hang out in anemonies more often,” you’ll tell a clown fish who is often being lured to bad neighborhoods by a barracuda who he was interested in dating. He’ll take your advice because he loves and respects you.

“You should just find out what you really want,” you’ll inform the related barracuda, who hasn’t been sanguine about a future where she functions as one of the world’s most vicious eating machines ever. Thanks to your advice she’ll free to pursue whatever occupation she wishes. She’ll pick art therapist, which isn’t the worst thing she could’ve gone for.

“Let your girl go,” you’ll tell the shark who raised the barracuda, who will think you’re sticking your tentacles where they don’t belong but will be restrained from the physical violence he so desperately wishes to commit by the presence of your assistant, a very physically imposing sperm whale who is considering graduate school.

“I’ll get by without you,” you’ll kindly inform the sperm whale, who will be tentatively asking you for letters of recommendation for a number of graduate institutions, most of them at the bottom of the ocean. With the force of your confidence he’ll propel himself into a fantastic career as one of the most prominent Melville Scholars in human history.

“I think we can make this work,” you’ll tell your wife, a giant squid whose family disapproved of your marriage from the start and who have, lately, begun to make your life quite difficult with their constant prodding and smack-talk about your octopus heritage. She’ll want to believe you quite badly, and she’ll know she still loves you, but it’ll be hard, so hard, for her to see the future.

She’ll rest her tentacle on yours and her black eyes will gaze into yours. She’ll long to lock her beak with yours so violently that she rips the delicate membrane surrounding it, but she won’t. Instead she’ll stroke the back of your adorably bulbous head with four of her arms.

“Okay,” she’ll tell you, smiling as best a squid can.

Congratulations Professor Octopus!