On asserting one's cerebral magnificence by crushing one's birthgiver into a metal cube: 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:
MysticalPeapod9008 asks
Went no contact with my birthgiver and I fear running into her around town. How should I disguise myself henceforth?
My answer
Why not disguise yourself as your birthgiver's own birthgiver? Give her a taste of her own medicine?
Given the usual hilarious stereotypes around rationales for no-contact, her birthgiver is probably one of those metal-crushing-things that transforms cars into cubes. And to impersonate one of those bad boys, you'll need serious drip.
Approach MIT's three nerdiest fraternities. Ask them if they've heard all those latest horrid rumours about them. No? No? They hadn't? Oh God. Apologise profusely. Tell them that you try be a source of positivity in everyone's lives. But your conscience simply won't let you remain schtum. Not about this. You're so sorry. But here goes:
Inform each of these three nerdy MIT fraternities that the other two nerdy fraternities reckon their fraternity has recently become, like, so horribly mainstream and normie maaaan! They've lost their nerdy pizazz! They're yesterday's news! They're Out!
They'll no doubt stare horrified at you, pale and spluttering and unable to form a coherent sentence. Instantly exploit this. Tell them: what better way to assert anew their cerebral magnificence than by designing a wicked-sick car-crusher robot suit of stupendous splendour and majesty? Eh? Eh? Nerd Kings like them? Easy peasy Nihon squeezy. Yeah bro. Poke-poke-poke their clever-clogs insecurities like there's no tomorrow. Go nuts.
All three will instantly twinkle forth the raddest and most formidable and majestic robot suits in the goddamn universe. Their bruised nerdy egos won't let them do otherwise. Wangle all three suits from all three fraternities, don the lot, and now strut around your hometown looking like Optimus Prime in one of those New Orleans parades where its members think they're re-enacting that James Bond opening scene.
You'll bump into Mumsy in no time. Screech at ear-splitting volume that she's an appalling disappointment to the family, unlike that delightful grandchild of hers. And it's time for her 9am car-cubing. Problem solved.
Original: https://mikeyclarke.co.nz/blog/2026/1/on-asserting-ones-cerebral-magnificence-by-crushing-ones-birthgiver-into-a-metal-cube-todays-terrible-advice
Hungry for more?
Bullshit Hors D’oeuvres: TERRIBLE ADVICE posts
Enjoy this snazzy sampling of hintCLICKABLEhint crowd-pleasers:
On your cherished pet bunnies judging you a stinkin' softcock, and on thwarting their hideous psychological Thunderdomes: today's TERRIBLE advice
“Your commitment to the premise is what sells it. By the time you got to the rabbits studying every personality quirk and cognitive weakness, I was invested. 😂 Keep doing ya thing, you've definitely got your own voice.”
On scheming bitches, Antarctic science side quests, extra-gorgeous ponies, and the Zodiac Killer: today's TERRIBLE advice
“What really impressed me is the hidden discipline underneath the silliness. People see chaos. I see structure. Every callback reinforces the central absurdity. Every tangent eventually loops back to the original premise. Every joke increases the pressure on the same narrative balloon.”
How to avoid embarrassing your mum by spreading 10^50 gay gents across the universe: today's TERRIBLE advice
“I feel wiser now haha you’re hilarious 😂😂”
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?