Ten thousand tremulous thunder-thighs, the ideal relationship fuel: today's TERRIBLE advice
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Kate asks
I'm in a long distance relationship with a guy I used to live with. I now see him maybe once a month sometimes more, sometime less. We don't really talk much during the work day, we're both busy. But at night I'm too smothering because I call him when he's at the bar and that bothers him because he wants to relax.
Breaking up through text over played. Give me some spicy breakup methods.
No dad f-ing. His dad is super gross. And he's just a methed up guy.
My answer
First, get a job at an abattoir. Ideally one of those messy, disorganised abattoirs we're always reading about on TV, where you can just pick up major organs and limbs up off the floor to smuggle home and enjoy later.
Then, send your ex-beloved a ransom note. Something like:
"WE THE CATHOLIC AND/OR ORTHODOX LEAGUE OF LOATHSOME SOBRIETY HAVE KIDNAPPED YOUR PREMARITAL HARLOT KATE, CEASE YOUR SINFUL SINFUL BAR ATTENDANCE AND ALCOHOL USAGE OR WE WILL MAIL YOU HER BODY PARTS UNTIL YOU CEASE YOUR WICKED WAYS."
Start mailing him random offcuts from your new abattoir gig. At first, keep your anatomical choices vaguely plausible: fingernail clippings, etc., but quickly move up to entire cow skulls. Dozens of them. Then pelvises, spines, livers, hooves, even the odd vagina. Pair them with loads of Blair-Witch-style self-made smartphone videos of you whimpering terrified to the camera that these people are beyond nuts, beyond insane, they're insatiable, they're utterly determined and devoted to what they see as their holy crusade to BREAK THE WILLS OF ALL DRUNKARDS. There is no act they won't attempt, no scheme too despicable. They'll happily slaughter you and dice you and mail your extremities to your drunk drunk loved ones.
To escape a horrid splatty death, you have therefore harnessed the Power Of Love. The love and affection that you and your ex(?)-beloved together share shrieks with such volcanic passionate ecstasy that your mental and emotional powers over your body have increased a hundredfold. You can grow extra limbs on command. Extra organs, extra anything-at-all. You can exude them like fruit. It's amazing. It's awesome. What modern woman wouldn't adore and thirst for such love? In fact, in a morbid kind of way, part of you is wishing that this Catholic And/Or Orthodox League Of Loathsome Sobriety wasn't bullshit and actually existed and had kidnapped you years ago, simply for the opportunity to chance upon this literally awesome new psionic fleshy fruity power.
Slip a memory card containing this latest video into your alleged kidnappers' latest shipment of five thousand cattle thighs, marked "Every Single Thigh Here Was Grown By Kate, We're Not Kidding, How The Hell Does She Do It? We Can't Chop Them Off Fast Enough!"
Pair this video with a second video, filmed rather differently. Gone is the trembly, lip-quivering terror, replaced instead by a newer glowing inner strength and determination. You've been thinking. A lot. An Überfräulein like yourself can no longer be seen dating just any old riff raff. Right? Your beau must step up his game. Announce, with a certain subtle sneering arrogance, looking down your nose at the camera, that if he wishes to remain your boyfriend, he must demonstrate to you not only his mastery of this same power, but more generally, that this long-distance bullshit is worth the trouble.
His test: he must get an erection, then mail just the head of his penis back to your kidnap location, as a show of good faith to your kidnappers, for if you can maintain an erection, you can't be that colossal a drunkard, right? But no funny business with amputations! He must redline his Love Turbines and produce an erection of such terrifying grandeur and length that it can thread the entire distance across your local postal service, a pink shining fleshy pole hundreds of miles long, reaching from him back to you.
Can he do that? The long-distance relationship is still on.
And besides, I think we can all agree that long-distance relationships are far easier when one or more of its penised individuals can physically bridge the distance and pleasure the relationship's other individual(s) from afar. That's actually awesome. Who wouldn't thirst for that?
Original: https://mikeyclarke.co.nz/blog/2022/3/ten-thousand-tremulous-thunder-thighs-the-ideal-relationship-fuel-todays-terrible-advice
Hungry for more?
Bullshit Hors D’oeuvres: TERRIBLE ADVICE posts
Enjoy this snazzy sampling of hintCLICKABLEhint crowd-pleasers:
On conscripting lesbian bitches and gay male dogs through Pray-The-Gay-Away camps for rich entitled floozies: today's TERRIBLE advice
“This is hilarious! I used to think all cats were female when I was a little kid and all dogs were male. haha”
Ten thousand tremulous thunder-thighs, the ideal relationship fuel: today's TERRIBLE advice
“MIKEY!!!!!! This. Was. Completely... UNHINGED!!! I loved every second of it. You need to be out giving EVERYBODY relationship advice because OBVIOUSLY this is the only real answer to Kate's relationship probs. This was a very easy instant subscribe!”
FABIO: betas and twinks and supple squishy femme-b0is: the microplastics to my asbestos, yet here’s why we MUST nourish ALL raunch appetites:
“The comparison of 'supple squishy femme-b0is' being the microplastics to Fabio’s asbestos is top-tier. You’ve captured that exact point where the 'overlords' just swapped one extreme for another and called it progress. I respect the call for a world where there’s 'oodles of room' for all appetites ... I’m locking into your frequency because it’s rare to find this much grit and humor in the same room.”
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?
Can’t see your thighs. How thick are they?
Mikey, this was a fever dream. You need to be locked up. I’ll probably read more LMAO