Everything that's ever happened or ever will happen in the entire goddamn universe: today's TERRIBLE advice
FB’s “TERRIBLE advice” group births GLORIOUS creative chaos. It’s funky. It’s fab. It ups life’s Good Bits. Do try some:
Elizabeth asks
Something happened to me recently that I can’t talk about to anybody because I don’t want to be judged or pitied. It’s very hard to cope. What do?
*i was not physically harmed, just emotionally and mentally lol*
My answer
If you want to subtly hint at the core of whatever the dagnabbit it was that you went through, without actually communicating the event's specifics, then simply let them logically deduce it: verbally rattle off every single other event that's ever happened or ever will happen in the history of the entire goddamn universe, minus yours. You'll leave a logic-hole a metre wide. They can then read between the lines. You might be there a while though.
Original: https://mikeyclarke.co.nz/blog/2026/4/everything-thats-ever-happened-or-ever-will-happen-in-the-entire-goddamn-universe-todays-terrible-advice
Hungry for more?
Bullshit Hors D’oeuvres: TERRIBLE ADVICE posts
Enjoy this snazzy sampling of hintCLICKABLEhint crowd-pleasers:
On scheming bitches, Antarctic science side quests, extra-gorgeous ponies, and the Zodiac Killer: today's TERRIBLE advice
“I can always trust Mikey to swoop in with solid advice. Truly the King Solomon of our time”
Today's TERRIBLE advice: I am one in Him, and He is one in Me, wink wink
“🫢🤭🫣 lol. Honestly, I'm not even gonna judge this terrible advice. I think the question was terrible as well. A terrible question, deserves a terrible advice. 😄”
On conscripting lesbian bitches and gay male dogs through Pray-The-Gay-Away camps for rich entitled floozies: today's TERRIBLE advice
“Your writing has this wonderfully chaotic energy that somehow stays coherent despite how wildly it escalates. 😂 I came for the absurd premise, stayed for the commitment to the bit. Satire like this is harder to write than people think, and you nailed the pacing.”
Bullshit Banquet: the SEXYVERSE NOVELS
*ahem*
IN A WORLD where wars are fought with romance and flirting and delicious erotic TENSION, the rivalries throbbing between history’s Great Powers have become a BUTTLOAD more bubbly, with fewer hideous massacres of musket and cannon, and OODLES more frisky cunnilingus contests:
The Sex Commandos Thwart The Third Vaginal Apocalypse
Part One: The Knights Of Raw Phwoar
Might Earth’s free nations drown under terrifying tornadoes of French femme-foam? Like hell, shout Britain’s Royal Marines Sex Commandos. Let’s assassinate France’s Imperatrix Brigitte Bardot! Come on. What’s the worst that could happen?
Part Two: The Soviet Sluts Superb
Turns out out-flirting Imperatrix Bardot is like trying to wank off Mt. Blanc when it’s wanking you back. Plan B: skedaddle, regroup, out-flirt the entirety of France and get loads more practice, then it’s stealthy-sneaky Round Two or bust.
Part Three: The Cervical Supremacy
Turns out flirting with every ladybro Rambo in France produces Rivals and Frenemies and Jilted Waifus galore. Smashing fun, but utter Kryptonite for Imperial kill-plans. Like, ever tried noshing off a world leader whilst a billion fanb0is fondle your buttocks? Want to? Read on!
Part Four: The Praetorian Prostitutes
The game’s up! The irresistible force of fanb0i-fondlemania has headbutted the immovable object of a gazillion furious Paris cops. They too thirst for Sex Commando patoot. Crunch time. Either launch one final rocket-strike against Bardot and France, or Earth’s free nations forever perish.
Part Five: [soon, baby]
Click these and enjoy these and your appetites will be SATISFIED.
Bullshit Emeritus: YOUR TURN
Fancy some boutique TERRIBLE advice of your own? Comment your question or dilemma, and I’ll magic up something deliciously wicked to put a smile on your face, just for you. You put yummy in my tummy, you know that?
Where Are We Now?
Eli stood at the field’s edge. A fencewire stitching the dark.
The question from the book. Where do we go when we die?
Wind in the grass. No answer.
A door in Vegas. Just a door.
The stone weight on his chest. A woman’s hand in the desert. Words not for him.
The courtroom. The gavel’s crack. The blank page.
His wife’s hands. Her kiss. She made room for a ghost.
A rock he was told of. Never seen.
His father’s notebook. The porchlight. The door standing open.
He looked at his hands. Old. Clean. Marked.
Where are we now?
Here. In the field. In what we carry. In the story told to bear the one that is not. In the light that dims and the light that returns.
The dead are gone. The living hold them.
He turned. A light in the kitchen window. The door open.
Still shining.
Sounds very apocalyptic. Scary.