The worst boyfriend in the world, deep-fried ligers, and liquid Jesus-chocolate: today's TERRIBLE advice
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Winter asks
I'm so hot people keep hitting on me everywhere I go -- my dentist, the cinema usher, random passers by, my boyfriend's father... But not my boyfriend 😞
What do?
My answer
Oh for God's sake! The only thing I cannot stand more than a hussy is a shit hussy. Your boyfriend? Seriously? Did you think I'd never read you bitching about me? Bitching is your existence. That's all you do. You are quite genuinely the most abysmal paramour I've ever met.
I've TRIED. My GOD I've tried. I sent you flowers and chocolates: you chewed the flowers and drowned the chocolates. Your divorcee support group couldn't believe it. It's like you were deliberately trying to provoke them. I’ve met dray horses with superior romantic intuition. Superior oral skills too, hint hint.
For your birthday last week I hired a violin quartet to play you Baby Got Back outside our bedroom window: you accused them of being, and I quote, insidious emissaries of the Heterosexual Agenda, then attacked them with MY strapon! The Sunday-Best chrome strapon, too, with the diamond head carved into the shape of Freddie Mercury mooning the recipient! Cleaning Mercury's nooks and crannies after a thorough usage takes hours! You KNOW I’ll have to wear it at tonight's evening prayers! What WILL the Ayatollah say? You know how persnickety that old strumpet gets when she’s in a huff. You did this deliberately. Again.
And now this. If you ever stopped running your Nigerian scams and got off your phone and out of bed you’d see the meal I’d cooked for us. Deep-fried m&ms on a bed of braised ligers. Your favourite. I thought I’d give our relationship one last go. I’ve been slaving away in the kitchen for the last three hours, clanking pots and pans and slitting ligers' throats to see if you’d even pause recording those ridiculous audio clips you make, to fool and ensnare even more Californian super-Karens, or whatever you’re calling your marks these days, and even just glance up at me.
You don’t even sound Nigerian! We have a beautiful, rolling, rich, dark accent, like liquid Jesus-chocolate. Your attempt at our accent sounds like Michael Jackson and Mike Tyson gargling each others’ prostates. The entire neighbourhood can hear it, even over the screams of expiring ligers. But no. You’re just lying there, in OUR water bed, abusing the goodwill of this support group web page right here, and these fine people, claiming that I don’t flirt with you.
BullSHIT. I’ve been flirting with you for months and your hussy prowess is so crap you can’t even notice. I’m giving you a reacharound right this second. I'm typing this one-handed. I bet you think it’s just the Help or something, though if my boss always whipped me the instant I ceased handhobbing him, shit, I'd pounce on his penis 24/7 too.
But I've had enough. If you stopped your faux-Nigerian crooning for two goddamn seconds you’d see the two-foot steel strapon I’m about to brain you with. Not the Freddie Mercury strapon. I'd never disrespect him like that. The Stalin strapon. He's always up for delivering a sound pounding. Just ask Trotsky. In a minute you'll be able to able to ask him in person.
(I feel I should point out that Winter and I are real-life friends, and he sent me a link to this question and told me to go nuts.)
Original: https://mikeyclarke.co.nz/blog/2021/11/the-worst-boyfriend-in-the-world-deep-fried-ligers-and-liquid-jesus-chocolate-todays-terrible-advice
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Bullshit Hors D’oeuvres: TERRIBLE ADVICE posts
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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?