How to show your breasts who's boss: 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:
Colleen asks
I work as a CNA during the grave shift (6PM- 6AM). There are only four of us who work the shift (just one person working at a time):
New girl #1: constantly pulls "no calls, no shows." I've had to go into overtime covering the first part of her shift until someone can take over.
New girl #2: suddenly can't walk today (??) and called out. My manager called and asked me to come in. It's my day off. I said no.
Regular #1: gone on vacation and can't currently cover shifts
Regular #2 (me): I just got diagnosed with arthritis in my hip, and my manager wants me to not miss work since there will be literally no one there to cover for me.
It's a sh!tty situation. I'd quit, but I'm getting paid $18 an hour. What do?
No OCC. I really need a laugh
My answer
Isn't it obvious? Just change the law in your country to make all breasts legal citizens. Fill in whatever paperwork is necessary to make your own breasts fellow employees at your graveyard shift (and if Nature has been careless enough to have neglected to supply you with a pair, then have whatever the opposite of a mastectomy is) - and then hey, collect their wages yourself, triple pay. Result!
Though you may have to first show your breasts who's boss, to prevent one or both attempting the same dirty trick on you. I'd do that anyway, just to prevent them ganging up on you. Ever met a gal who found herself on the wrong end of a breasts rebellion? I hear that happened to Dolly Parton.
Original: https://mikeyclarke.co.nz/blog/2021/11/how-to-show-your-breasts-whos-boss-todays-terrible-advice
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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]
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?