Mt. Doom vs Chernobyl, billions of twitchy-schnozzed squirrels, and ceramic/asbestos rigor mortis: today's TERRIBLE advice
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Kylee asks
A squirrel died in my yard. After a few rainy days it has melted. What do
My answer
Squirrels? Melted? You'd melted squirrels? 😲 What's the problem, exactly? That sounds amazing!
At least in my neck of the woods, judicious disposal of even only a few billion squirrel corpses is a NIGHTMARE. I don't know much of the squirrel-corpse Question back in the Old Country, but here in New Zealand, there's a Sinister Something about their diet or other environmental factor(s) that gunks squirrel cadavers into some kind of ceramic-steel super-hybrid. Anyone with a super-duper-bogan name like "Kylee" is likely a New Zealander too, so apologies if I'm telling you crap you already know; this post is for non-Kiwi observers.
Squirrel cadavers are twerkable enough at the instant of death (er, friends tell me), but a few hours of rigor mortis and they make asbestos look like Silly Putty. They just won't burn. Or melt. Shovel the dang things into Mt. Doom and Mt. Doom itself will congeal.
Seriously. We tried it. The actual real mountain that Mt. Doom is based on and filmed upon, Mt. Ngauruhoe, is apparently "the most continuously active volcano in New Zealand." But it hasn't gone bang since 1954. By the most astounding coincidence, this coincided with the NZ government's one and only attempt to dispose of some nine million exotic-invader squirrel corpses, pouring the damn things down the gullet of New Zealand's #1 Ferocious-est Volcano.
The volcano froze. A volcano. It FROZE.
Word on the street is, ever heard of the 100% Pure NZ Tourism ad campaign? Likely you have, or something similar. Most worldly citizens apparently consider New Zealand this pristine and delicate radiance of natural friggin' beauty. Eminently sightseeable. They should thus vamoose their patoot yonder imminently and spend serious tourist moola.
But as a kiwi local, I can however confirm that such resplendent virtue ain't down to New Zealand being uniquely hippie-ish. We generate just as much pollution per capita as anywhere else. But only five million citizens means less pollution total, don't it. Being the most isolated country in the world means any air pollution gets blown away to remote and (human)-deserted ocean pronto, and is therefore 100% safe and 100% pure so quit your bitching you hippie killjoy.
With one giant exception. Ground pollution.
To produce this immaculate Tourism facade of illustrious LUCRATIVE gorgeousness, word on the street is that NZ's government extracted and leached the country's gunky decades of terran foulness via techniques popularised by the world's Chernobyls: phytoremediation (planting sunflowers, of all things, which seem predisposed to vacuum-up the soil's gnarliest radioisotopes from the soil and into the plants), and mycoremediation (same again, but with mushrooms and other fungi, which is probably why toddlers hate eating them: they take a dim view of their elders and betters attempting poison-based discipline and/or granting them the kind of wicked-sick X-Men superpowers monetisable in movie franchises ... actually you know what, I've talked myself into scoffing irradiated mushrooms. They sound rad).
Squirrels adore such pollution. It's their Tim-Tams.
Word on the street is, this country's secret pollution cleanup policy involves breeding extra-hardass squirrels in their billions to chow down on ground pollutants nationwide, transferring them from soil to rodent. Problem is, the squirrels' ceramic'd and unincineratable corpses form increasingly monstrous heaps. Which swell skyward by the year. You can't ignore them. They're a menace.
And here's you. Another Kiwi. Bragging oh-so-casually that you're the first gal in the friggin' universe to melt the unmeltable.
That is ... amazing, sistah. Could I employ your yard and your rain for my own squirrel cadaver disposal needs? Could I dump only a few extra million twitchy-schnozzed corpses there? And just a few not-squirrels also? You know. Former clients. And I hear the good folks who brought us Chernobyl are still on the lookout for a neat hideaway to stash their Elephant's Foot; could you help a brother out?
That said ... me and my assumptions, eh? Maybe I've overestimated your stately grounds' character and vim. Maybe it's your yard that's melted. Maybe proximity to ceramic-asbestos rodents makes your yard go all gooey like it's in a Memphis Meltdown ad. It wouldn't be the first!
Original: https://mikeyclarke.co.nz/blog/2022/6/mt-doom-vs-chernobyl-billions-of-twitchy-schnozzed-squirrels-and-ceramic-asbestos-rigor-mortis-todays-terrible-advice
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Bullshit Hors D’oeuvres: TERRIBLE ADVICE posts
Enjoy this snazzy sampling of hintCLICKABLEhint crowd-pleasers:
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“Hoooollllyyyy shit Mikey! The transition from "your husband might be keeping secrets" to "maybe she's running a wedding-vow-renewal side hustle at the South Pole" was so fucking wild that by the end I was fully invested in the horse conspiracy. 😂😂😂😂😂😂”
On scheming bitches, Antarctic science side quests, extra-gorgeous ponies, and the Zodiac Killer: today's TERRIBLE advice
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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?
This "Sexyverse Advice" piece is a wild ride through a chaotic, creative landscape that feels like it’s built on a foundation of pure "Terrible Advice." The contrast between the apocalyptic imagery of Mt. Doom and Chernobyl and the surreal visual of "twitchy-schnozzed squirrels" creates a sharp, funky friction. It captures that exact moment when the "Good Bits" of life are found in the most unpredictable and glorious messes.There is a radical sovereignty in embracing this kind of creative chaos. While the rest of the world is looking for sanitized, "perfect" advice, you are documenting the anatomy of a "fabulous" sort of madness. Using a squirrel in a crosshair as the visual anchor for a post about "Terrible Advice" is a bold move—it’s like a warning and a celebration all at once. It takes a certain level of grit and a total shuttering of the ego to find the "fab" in a ceramic/asbestos rigor mortis situation. It’s clear that the realest parts of existence aren’t found in the polished, polite spaces, but in the funky, "terrible" bits that most people try to avoid. Appreciate the way you’ve mapped out this specific frequency of chaos; it’s a vivid receipt of how life’s best moments are often the ones we didn’t see coming.When you look at this kind of "Terrible Advice," do you think it’s the chaos itself that makes it work, or is it just the relief of finally stepping away from the "perfect" narrative? And do you feel like the "squirrel" energy is a reflection of how we’re all just twitching through the madness together? Keep pushing that funky vision!🫡
Unsettling interesting read