On subsuming the wills, skills and thrills of seven concentric humans for Scandal and Smut: today's TERRIBLE advice
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Fredi asks
This AM one of my Facebook friends posted about how she is worried about her husband (who cheated on her several times in the past) is cheating on her again. I dropped a comment saying life is too short to accept being cheated on and she deserves better (I was among several supportive commenters on that post btw). In response her champion husband called me an "ugly d*mb m@n c*nt" (trying to avoid the Wrath of the Great Zucchini here, this clown even tried getting into my DM!). Now she is no longer my Facebook friend after insisting she loves that loser NO MATTER WHAT.
Ideas as to what my next move should be?
My answer
It's ... it's obvious, isn't it?
You don't enjoy being snared and trapped in their dramas? Simple. Ensnare her and entrap her right back.
Imprison your friend in your own even more colossal and daunting erotic spiderweb tapestry of affairs, sherry, raunch, scandal, and of course hubby. Show unto her the error of her ways.
Here’s how. Step one. Become an expert taxidermist. Select perhaps five random members of your nearest male stripper troupe (Google informs me my nearest is https://barebutlers.co.nz/strippers/, and also I’m assuming for reasons of simplicity that your friend is into blokes. If I’m mistaken, by all means amend my answer to your taste). Hire the lot on the pretext that you yearn and you throb for a hot hot one-lady par-tay. Ask them if they do those fuck-ten-get-one-free stamp card things you get in coffee shops.
When they're at your place, murder the lot, flay and taxiderm their hides, then tailor each such that you're able to wear their skins like a sexy sexy suit and convincingly impersonate each gent at your leisure.
Start approaching your friend in random public locations, wearing the skins of each gent. You will now transform yourself into the five most romantic Lotharios the world has ever known. Go seriously all-out on the steaming volcanic passion. Leave nothing on the table. The goal here is to give your chum the delusion that her romantic and sexual desirability has suddenly gone through the roof, that vast savage packs of gorgeous men have made it their mission in life to prostrate themselves before her, weeping in squirming, sycophantic ecstasy and pledging their imperishable love and devotion.
Seriously, go nuts: I propose that, among other schemes, you purchase a huge catapult, or perhaps a slingshot, locate her house, then also buy entire rose bushes, grubby soil-covered root systems and all. Or, better still, steal them from your local municipal botanic garden. In each soil crater, leave a calling card with Mr. “ugly d*mb m@n c*nt"'s contact details.
Anyhoo. Launch your flowery prizes from the street at terrifying velocities and smash them through her house’s front windows. Classic secret-admirer shit. Wait a few seconds for her and hubby to dash into their house’s living room to investigate, then get hold of one of those twirly-snail concrete-mixer trucks, fill it with many cubic metres of the finest, most expensive romancey chocolate you can get your hands on, and also mix in several tens of thousands of dollars of gold foil to the choccy mix because apparently these days that’s what gets the young ladies really hot. Approach their house once more, this time from behind. Crash your concrete-chocolate truck through their house’s back fence at hideous speed, perform your finest phunky-phresh boy-racer handbrake turn on their back lawn, gouging great slashes from its turf, reverse up to the home’s largest rear windows, and finally crunch the concrete-mixer truck’s rear through their master bedroom’s windows. Then let ‘er rip. Splatter your sumptuous golden-chocolatey gift all over their boudoir. Now vamoose, in the gratifying knowledge you have injected Romance to your friend’s life. What lady wouldn’t adore that?
This will no doubt immediately go to her head. Soon she will become accustomed to throngs of gorgeous hunks worshipping her wherever she goes and flinging colossal rosebush shrubberies at her throat. Everything’s going to plan! Excellent!
Next step: choose the skin and the identity of whichever hunk your friend has been swooning over the most. Posing as him, invite her to a steaming and scandalous erotic rendezvous at your local luxury hotel’s Valentine Suite, that evening. She’ll surely go nuts.
When she departs her home that evening, nip inside through the back door, step around your great congealing splat of chocolate-gold from earlier, gently murder her husband, apply your by-now seasoned taxidermy expertise to his corpse, get it nicely bespoke-tailored and wearable, then sprint outside to your concrete-chocolate wheels, absolutely floor it to overtake your friend to the Valentine Suite, and perhaps run her off the road as you overtake to buy yourself a bit more time, why not?
You’ve arrived, with five hunky-stripper hides and one douche-hubby hide. Clad yourself concentrically in all six, with hubby-hide innermost. Throw a few tuxedos on over the top. When your friend finally arrives at the Suite, get her squiffy, then perform the most sensual, drawn-out striptease in the history of eroticism. After half an hour she’ll be flushed and giggly and so terribly a-swoon and your tuxedos will be strewn across the suite.
Continue the striptease, with the hunky-stripper hides, one after another after another, With luck, she’ll be so overcome and so ecstatic that the different personalities will all start running together in her mind.
And finally. Unleash her husband. Pose as him. Declare to her on bended knee how sorry you are to have cheated on her, and she deserves so, so much better, and you can no longer in good conscience remain her husband, so here’s her ring back, **proffer**.
As she splutters, speechless, sheepishly admit to her that you, her now-former husband, never actually been a human, and in fact you’d been a horrid arachnoid bug-being from Mercury or something all along. Or a Yoda-species. Or Sergeant Bash from Robot Wars, it doesn't really matter, pick whatever character or species tickles your fancy. Point is, you were a personality other than dickhead-Homo-sapiens.
You could never get the hang of sheathing yourself in human flesh, it makes you feel so deceptive, you know? Like you're not your real, true, authentic self. Can't she see how clumsily your sheathing-job is?
Your friend nods.
It's just an awful situation all round. You find that you lash out in ways you regret later, for example, calling that lovely ladyfriend of hers, Fredi Baker, an “ugly d*mb m@n c*nt”. Abominable behaviour! You feel terrible. You’d love to make it up to her somehow. Both of you. Fredi deserves colossal compensation, wouldn’t you agree? A night of passion herself! Doesn’t she? Right? Wouldn't you like to make that happen?
Your friend nods.
And now it's time for the final trump card. Tell your friend that these six humans gave themselves up willingly and happily. They melded themselves to you, bound their wills to yours. You're just that good a People Person. It's time you made your friend's wishes come true. It turns out you'd subsumed not six humans, but seven.
Now, tear off the hubby-hide and reveal your glorious nude self. Then make out with her or something. Doesn't really matter exactly what you do, though you could probably sweeten the deal by hinting to her that you now possess the life skills of all seven people, including their fucking-prowess. Point is, victory is yours: you've ensnared your friend in the most colossal web of lies and scandal and bullshit she'd ever encountered, and hey, you'd also got laid.
Original: https://mikeyclarke.co.nz/blog/2022/3/on-subsuming-the-wills-skills-and-thrills-of-seven-concentric-humans-for-scandal-and-smut-todays-terrible-advice
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