Anyway, along with the official crap I have to deal with, I also get fan mail from time to time. It's been sort of interesting, actually, watching the letters grow as my column attracts more newspapers. (The papers finally understand not to send any more stupid reporters to ask me questions about the goddamn hare for the fucking billionth time. The last time that happened, we had ourselves a feast and the guy's ribs are holding up the flagpole now). My staff usually handles fan mail, too, as most of the time it's nothing more than autograph and/or picture requests. However, being the sadists they are, the staff sometimes let a letter "slip" into my hands. Such a case happened yesterday. I was flipping through the mail when I found a letter from a young woman in the United States asking for advice. She was shortly to be married, and wondered if I had any thoughts about marriage as an institution. Well, my eyes just about bugged out of my head when I read this. There was no way the poor woman could have known, of course; this is the one subject I normally don't discuss at all. Perhaps, though, it's time to get this story out in the open so someone else can avoid having the same problems I did. 

I was married once, a long time ago, to an absolutely stunning tortoise named Sybil. She could do it all; rip small trees in half when she was hungry, slide down the muddied slopes into the lagoon, even slap the snappers in line when they occasionally got out of control and did stupid things like eat the grass around the capital grounds. Her most telling attribute, though, was her swimming ability. Goddamn, Sybil could outdistance any living thing in the water, including the whales, who would stop by during their annual migration to confer with us about various worldly politics and take swimming lessons from her. God, she was something. In Sybil's younger days she would swim everywhere, and I mean everywhere you can think of. Australia, Alaska, Japan; she even took a tour of the whole Southern Hemisphere with hammerhead sharks as tortoiseguards. You couldn't fuck with her in the water. Hell, Sybil had more friends than Mikhail Gorbechev did a few years back. I never worried about her on those long trips. 

As the centuries went by, though, Sybil ventured less out to sea. She was starting to get a little older, and we had decided to try to have tiny troll tortoises that could waddle around the island. Two hundred years we tried. Nothing. We tried non-traditional locales (I don't recommend the space beneath crossed rotting trees, by the way), enhancements that some of Sybil's manta friends brought from the China Sea, even counseling from some waterbucket named Dr. Trollenmeister who didn't have any kid s of his own. You could understand this if you actually saw him. (This is why I have Dr. Ruth locked out on my satellite dish. It brings back ugly memories.) Finally, after the frustration of all this work and no results, I suggested to Sybil that perhaps we needed a vacation up the coast. She was estatic, as it not only meant getting out of the house, but she could do some serious swimming as well. After some discussion, we decided not to bring her usual escort, and with much fanfare befitting the administrators of the island, we were sent off to the lower coast of Mexico with the sole purpose of bringing back little Big Tortoises. 

Mexico in late summer is an absolutely wonderful place. The water is toasty, the breezes are cool, and there are thousands of lovely sea greens that are easily harvested. It truly is a sea paradise. Of course, such a place isn't uninhabited. We visited the courts of several well-known species, including the sting rays, tarpon, and even a small band of manatees that had somehow gotten hopelessly lost and set up shop on the left side of the strip. Sybil knew most of our hosts and indeed many of them had visited the island, so they were more than happy to show off their little corner of the universe. This was my first trip off the island in six or seven hundred years and I was having the time of my life, exploring new caves, poking around new beaches and gorging myself on exotic plants (we made several important treaties, in fact, solely for the purpose of importing most of the tasty stuff to the island). 

I couldn't forget what Sybil and I were really there for, though, so after a couple of weeks of mooching we asked our hosts for a list of secluded romantic spots. Gossip always travels fastest in water, and a list had already been prepared. Looking through the brochure, Sybil and I chose a small bay largely cut off from the sea. Arrangements were made and a few days later we swam onto the beautiful black sands where we spent three delicious days. However, on the fourth day, as we were fulfilling our administrative roles, the sky suddenly darkened and I felt myself being violently tossed into the air. When I regained my senses, I looked up and saw my darling Sybil being carried off by the Aztecs. Overcome by shock, I sat there, hearing her sobbing pleas as she was hoisted in the air, the bastards pawing her magnificent purple and green shell. Not even one of the Aztecs turned back for me. all they wanted was the pretty bauble that protected my Sybil. What could I do? Not a goddamn thing. 

Slowly, I made my way back to our hosts and informed them of the heinous crime that had been suffered upon us. They were horrified and swore to avenge Sybil. Still in shock, I just nodded and silently took my leave, refusing an escort for my journey home. The island had heard about the disaster well before I arrived, of course, and was in a public state of mourning. I immediately went into seclusion. 

Two months later, a delegation of sting rays arrived. I was not in the mood to deal with any type of official function, but out of respect for Sybil I decided to receive them. This was the first shipment of food that we had bartered for during our vacation. I sampled a few morsels, proncounced them passable, and had my staff draw up a receipt. As my staff left, one of the rays asked about my health. I tried to put on a brave face, but everyone knew my malaise. The rays then told me of the plot to avenge Sybil. Word had spread like a typhoon about the Aztecs' hated crime, and the eels swam inland to inform their cousins, the deadly moccasins. The moccasins laid out in ambush for the fucking bastards as they marched Sybil toward the capital city as a gift for their king. The snakes dropped from the trees, dive-bombing for every bare neck they could find, and killed the entire party. They found Sybil fastened inside a wooden cage. Two of the larger moccasins wrapped themselves around the locks, shattering the bars holding my love. Sybil stumbled out and was led to a nearby creek, where she stayed for a week regaining her strength as the moccasins guarded her day and night. Finally, she slowly swam her way down the creek to a river and out to sea, where several sharks were waiting to escort her back to the ray dwellings. As the ray finished his story, there was a rustling noise 
at the back of the delegation. 

Hoping beyond hope, I dove through the rays and there was my darling Sybil, thinner, her beautiful shell now dulled, but she was back with me. As I approached, though, she indicated for me to stop. In a deadly calm voice, Sybil informed me that she was pregnant; however, she had fallen in love with with the king manta and felt absolutel y no compunction about leaving me, as I had left her when she was carried off by the Aztecs. Her only reason for coming back to the island was to tell me this news in person. Having said this, Sybil then turned around and swam out of the lagoon. I never saw her again. 

Sometimes I'm asked by visitors why I seem so bitter. Well, there's always a reason, isn't there? Anyway, my advice to the woman who's getting married is this: never take your spouse for granted, no matter what the situation. Bad things can happen otherwise. Hopefully, this little fairy tale's gotten that message across. 

Excuse me while I brood.  Good night.