Ferrari-armadas of inflatable Hubby-phwoar shall divebomb femme-rivals like stroppy Stukas (Boss Babe perfection): today's TERRIBLE advice
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Casey asks
I have bad Autophobia(fear of being alone) and my husband is a way for work for a week. Im now home alone and freaking out.
What do?
My answer
There are loads of bespoke custom blowup doll makers around. We're talking Ferraris of inflatable phwoar. I hear these days most are doing a roaring trade building Putin dolls. And you can totally see why. Phwoar. What a dude.
Why not approach your nearest to construct one of your hubby? Get him to record a few dozen extra-romantic phrases and play them back from an audio recorder in its head. Or fill it full of helium and get a drone to tow it and do laps around your house, crooning deafening love ballads so that your neighbourhood can bask in the intimacy. Or commission an entire army of dolls of you, do the same helium/drone routine, and follow your beloved from above in a vast chevron-shaped armada of inflatable love.
Wouldn't he do the same for you?
He would ... wouldn't he? Does your beautiful beau not cherish you and worship you and smooch forever your adorable wee toes-ies? 'Course he does. So it's high time you put your Autophobia to good use. Harness that shite. Proclaim throughout Casa Casey (that's your pad) that it's your turn to businessly piss off for a week. And wherever you boss-babe-ly venture, a second chevron-shaped armada of inflatable husbandly love shall hover aloft, maintaining aerial vigil and divebombing your business femme-rivals like stroppy Stukas. It'll be friggin' awesome. Your autophobia won't know what hit it, baby. Problem solved.
Original: https://mikeyclarke.co.nz/blog/2022/5/ferrari-armadas-of-inflatable-hubby-phwoar-shall-divebomb-femme-rivals-like-stroppy-stukas-boss-babe-perfection-todays-terrible-advice
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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
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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]
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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?




Hilarious! Love the Airplane! picture too! Keep em coming!