On your cherished pet bunnies judging you a stinkin' softcock, and on thwarting their hideous psychological Thunderdomes: 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:

Lauren asks

My rabbits insist that they’re starving to death. They were fed twenty minutes ago but they’re already back at their bowl begging. What do?

Hard mode: no rabbit stew, no animal f-ing.

My answer

Dear oh dear. You know what you’ve only gone and done, Ms. Alleged Pet-Mistress?

You’re your rabbits’ deity. Their sole source of sustenance is your Whim. They’ve spent their entire Lauren-Hegemony discovering the following: might your rabbit-rationing discipline collapse? They feast! Should your pro-rabbit goodwill shrivel? They starve!

You’ve compelled your beloved pets to view your hourly temperament wobbles as literal life and death. You’ve trained them to devote their admittedly finite bunny-brain-power to detecting and exploiting every last personality quirk and cognitive weakness you’ve ever possessed. You’ve made every rabbit encounter a vicious psychological Thunderdome. You dingbat.

And looks like they’ve gained the upper hand! They’ve already whittled adjacent feast gaps down to twenty friggin’ minutes? Good god, girl. Bested by rabbits? Don’t be such a softcock, sistah. Fight back! You need to stamp generous dollops of iron discipline forthwith.

You must therefore go medi-frickin’-eee-vil on their too-plump bunny-butt-cheeks. Set up a TV or laptop by their cage and play them the movie Alive on infinite loop, with particular attention to the cannibal scenes. Turn a snow machine upon them. Crucify other rabbits around their cage. (Already-dead rabbits, mind you, don’t go actually physically torturing bystanders, we want to confine our rabbit-y agony and torment to the purely psychological.) Barbecue these other rabbits in front of your wards incredibly slowly. Then consume the barbecued rabbits in the most orgasmic way you know how. Then start sharpening a really massive pair of butchers’ cleavers and give your pets MEANINGFUL LOOKS.

By now it should once more be their 20-minute dinnertime. Drizzle sparse rabbit-munchies into their bowls. Or styrofoam peanuts if they still appear defiant. And inform them you’ll let them live this time. THIS time.

They’ll never trouble you again. Problem solved 😘

Original: https://mikeyclarke.co.nz/blog/2022/10/on-your-pet-bunnies-judging-you-a-softcock-and-thwarting-their-hideous-psychological-lunchy-thunderdomes-todays-terrible-advice

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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.

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Further Reading: The SEXYVERSE NOVELS

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]

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