Fail this breathalyser and it's the Ottoman slave market for you: 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:
Wren asks
i’m getting top surgery in a few months, what are some ‘bucket list’ items i can do with my breasts before they go? don’t be weird.
edit because some unfunny people have problems with ‘don’t be weird’: i just mean i don’t want strangers telling me to do porn or sex acts. it’s uncreative and gross. there are plenty of other funny suggestions that arent sexual harassment. take notes from them.
My answer
What are you replacing your boobs with? Ever considered a pair of mini drinks cabinets? I tested out a few of the more buxom, capacious models some years back, and great googly moogly are they comfy.
You can purchase some quite astoundingly wholesome models these days. There was one that seriously tweaked my sense of suaveness and of fair play: once installed, you'd prod one of your new nipples with its unique combo-code. Its two half-breasts beneath would anti-clamshell apart like Darth Vader's meditation chamber[1] in The Empire Strikes Back, with much pressure-chamber hissing and waterfall-cascades of dry ice and a tuxxed-up mouse quartet or something banging out the more ominous bits of the Imperial March.
Inside is a selection of tastefully arranged shot glasses with exquisite mini cocktails ready to sip, each paired with an appropriate cigar and afternoon-after pill. Each breastly cabinet also comes complete with an assortment of responsible-booze-consumption devices: the left contains a breathalyser-gadget with SOBRIETY IS FOR WANKERS written along one side in graceful fluoro-neon calligraphy, and the right contains a combined microphone-fan for defeating various drivers'-seat breathalyser types clientele may find themselves legally blessed with.
However, these drinks cabinets' designers have since announced that they'd felt terrible about these awesomesauce inventions of theirs nonetheless causing that colossal 40-mile T-72 traffic jam north of Kyiv a while back, so they let their hearts and their consciences nudge and guide them forthwith, and have now added breastly drinks cabinets AI/firmware/machine-wisdoms Upgrades, whereby the gizmos therein simply refuse to operate unless the user first feeds into it a polaroid of their youngest fifteen under-4yo relatives all holding a massive sign saying YEAH YOUR ALCOHOLISM HASN'T KILLED US JUST YET, GRANDMA, BUT DRINK ANY MORE OF OUR POSTDOC SAVINGS AND WE'LL SELL YOU AT THE OTTOMAN SLAVE MARKET. That exact text. Provide such a photo? All shall remain rosy! Keep up Happy Hour. Cheers, baby.
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Original: https://mikeyclarke.co.nz/blog/2022/5/fail-this-breathalyser-and-its-the-ottoman-slave-market-for-you-todays-terrible-advice
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Bullshit Hors D’oeuvres: TERRIBLE ADVICE posts
Enjoy this snazzy sampling of hintCLICKABLEhint crowd-pleasers:
Cross-breeding Mike Tyson with Ron Jeremy, monetising concussions, and flaying Ayn Rand fans: today's TERRIBLE advice
“Wow that's some of the most hilarious and funniest, wildest shit I ever read! Thank you! That's absolutely fucking brilliant! Like the Mike Tyson/Ron Jeremy mash up!? Genius!”
Soy milk: my childhood enlightenment on Gay vs Homosexual vs Vegetarian vs Santa Claus vs Sergeant Spacedicks
“I love how unhinged your connections are in every article! I can never guess where it's going until the end!”
On gaggles of hussies, showers of floozies, bullshit pro-breasts praise, and vast adult babies: today's TERRIBLE advice
“Sometimes laughter can make a point that outrage cannot. The satire isn't really about revenge....it's about showing how ridiculous it is that mothers are still criticized for feeding their children. Always love reading your work!”
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?