On urethral lasers, ALDERAAN SHOT FIRST, hypersonic moggies, and every orifice exploding joyous foams: today's TERRIBLE advice
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Candice asks
Getting a laser beam up my urethra next week ... what do?
My answer
Depends entirely on the power of the laser! Different strokes for different folks:
Scenario A. Are we talking about one of those piddly laser-pen doohickeys so popular in the ‘90s? Everyone loved them. But when used unwisely they’re a menace! And holy god, weren't we kids just a font of unwisdom? Holy shit. Alleged grown-ups instructed us on no uncertain terms that even these dinky little pipsqueaks could produce lasers vastly brighter even than sunlight SO DON’T LOOK DOWN THEM YOU FOOL.
So guess what we did? It was more to cock a snoot to Authority than anything else. Result: razzle-dazzle super-sunlight. Argh. I can still see the afterimages today.
Now I’m colourblind. Variant: red-green. Protanomaly. Autumn leaves and sunsets are oft lost on me. I’d observe these and think “oh that’s nice”, whilst adjacent family members invariably shriek in ecstasy and explode joyous foams and fluids from every orifice.
Bottom line: I have never laid my colourblind eyes on a shade of red that I’d describe as “bright”.
Except when attempting to outstare a laser pen. Good lord.
Now you. You’d neglected to mention your species, so for safety's sake, we must consider at least the possibility you’re one of those loathsome alien octopus-creatures with those hilariously sensitive and tender eye-clusters lurking up your urethra and other orifices. I'll be extra-conservative for safety's sake and declare this a FACT. So you're extra-vulnerable to dreadful laser pens. Full disclosure: when I'm eight hours into a particularly magnificent chamomile-bender, I honestly can’t rule all this out of myself. So you'd therefore best jury-rig a welder’s mask or something to shove up your pee-hole and armour your urethra-eye(s).
Also we all love making cats go absolutely nuts when chasing laser-pen dots. We can’t rule out your doctor being the kind of maniac who’d get a savage pack of cats absolutely frothing to chase down and murder-kill that Dot, rile them into breaking the goddamn sound barrier in Hot Pursuit, then with a flick of the wrist, send them hurtling up your nonny. So make that welder’s mask extra-reinforced.
Scenario B. Perhaps your urethral laser treatment isn’t medical at all. Perhaps your nation’s military is designing and testing one of those insanely powerful anti-drone lasers so cherished by Ukrainians. Perhaps you’re one of those abominable dingbats who's volunteered for extra moola as a laser-flavoured crash test dummy. Perhaps Russia’s latest drone defence counter-measures involves draping female volunteers like you-the-questioner, Candace, across and over their airborne drones like feminine bandoliers, in an effort to appeal to Ukraine’s Gallant Gentleman instincts, and dissuade them from incinerating Russian air-power onslaughts.
If that’s so, then geez, you gotta counter Russia’s counters, right? It is of paramount importance for Ukraine to ascertain in advance the precise magnitude of lasing power necessary to saturate a Russkie drone’s femme-defences. And that includes even the subtlest orifices like urethras. Medieval knightly duelling always involved the participants seeking the vulnerable and stabby gaps in their opponent’s steel-plate armour. Hit gaps early and often.
Same here, right? The sensible military must test ALL combat scenarios. There’s no point in deploying a gazillion pricey Gallant-Gentleman-Instinct-armoured drones if they discover the hard way that a mere low-power laser to the urethra will explode the drone like a proton torpedo down the Death Star’s exhaust port.
And speaking of Death Stars … Scenario C. The laser encroaching on your twinkle-cave's attic isn’t the Death Star’s primary zap-gun, is it? If I had a penny for each time an incoming laser turned out be the Death Star, etc. Have you been conscripted by Alderaan’s nobility, perchance? Are they constructing an extra-squishy one-woman human barrier against imminent Death Star attacks? Is this the weapon threatening your front bottom?
Then oh dear. I don’t know what to tell you. Bit tricky to block that. Why not go for broke, then? Channel late ‘90s Star Wars fandom, and wear some particularly magnificent panties saying “ALDERAAN SHOT FIRST” across the gusset in an extra-spangly Star Wars font. Knowing how chaotic and troll-y that corner of the Internet can become, especially when concerning ladies actually wielding jokes on their own terms, then it’s got to be worth a try. Go nuts, sistah 😘
Original: https://mikeyclarke.co.nz/blog/2026/5/on-urethral-lasers-alderaan-shot-first-hypersonic-moggies-and-every-orifice-exploding-joyous-foams-todays-terrible-advice
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*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:
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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]
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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?