On relieving one's gay anxieties via Robocop, Alex Jones, Pepe Le Pew, BRIAN BLESSED, and dickhead Avengers: 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:
Gino asks
How to stop being self-conscious about being g@y?
My answer
Dude! Isn't it obvious? Just provoke every single person, object and abstract concept in the entire universe into becoming even gayer than you.
Here's what you do. First, you know those abhorrent Pray The Gay Away programmes championed by assorted squeamish religious nutjobs? Yeah. Those. Sign up to them. The whole lot. All at once.
The idea is not to actually comply with these programmes in good faith. That would be laughable. Goodness no. See, these things are operated by lunatics. They foam at the mouth to orchestrate a worldwide cleanse of the homoghey, as I believe today's wokesters phrase it. They're not exactly operating from a headspace of diligent reasoning. They thrash and squirm at the teensiest glimpse of their fabulous bugbear. They're nuts.
Your goal is to harness their headless lunacy. Provoke them. Really rile them up. Get super-DUPER-gay on their sweet sweet candy-asses. After signing up to each's Programme, inform every last one of them that you just love what they've done with their priest outfits, and you simply can't handle being apart. And it's entirely friggin' obvious to all concerned, you tell them, that their Praying The Gay Away makes each of them sprout a raging, frothing hatred-boner you can spy from friggin' space. That makes them incredibly happy, and that makes you incredibly happy. So bring on the Praying, baby. First thing Tuesday.
Great, done. A frothing, shambling horde of heinous preachers now stampedes from around the globe in your direction. All going to plan. Now, while you're waiting for them, amplify your personality to eleven.
You'll need to fashion yourself into one of those friggin' earsplitting hyper-extrovert social tornadoes. One of those pricks that sucks the social air out of even the raddest and magnificent-est par-tay through sheer force of abrasive personality. Someone who leaves your audience emotionally pulverised within seconds, and thus pliant putty for some fragrant and gnarly personality imprinting.
How? Easy peasy. Inhale five cubic metres of Colombian Riverdance powder, then publicly challenge Alex Jones and BRIAN BLESSED to a three-way shouty shoutfest. Loser gets bummed. You three will be at it for yonks. You'll transform into the loudest and most charismatic object in the universe and in fine fettle to transmit your formerly bog-standard individual poofness into the faces of billions, like a magnificent halogen spotlight against a succession of wanker jellyfish.
By now, your heinous preacher horde should have assembled like dickhead Avengers. Time to put your plans into action. Ever jammed your thumb onto a garden hose? Its water pressure goes haywire. Its squirt range triples. It's awesome.
Your hyper-extrovert-powered Gay is a Garden Hose. The heinous preacher horde is a Thumb. Let 'er rip, baby.
You may now commence your fabulous homoghey provocations. At everyone and everything. Your relatively heterosexual surroundings just can't not comply. The Gay blasts from you, radiates from you, flees from you, squirted to hyper-focused precision by the surrounding Heinous-Preacher-Thumb. You're becoming the bastard offspring of Pepe Le Pew and Robocop. You're raising the gayness of entire continents. You're a one-man MAN machine.
Finally, relent in your social-super-nova-ness. At long last, allow the Heinous-Preacher-Thumb to stroke its ruined ego a smidgeon, and allow its frazzled members to genuinely squelch your own gayness. Persist in their rotten handiworks until random townsfolk start accusing you of being unconscionably straight. Trust me, girlfriend, I've been on both sides of that fence.
You are now the least gay object in the entire universe. It is therefore physically impossible to be self-conscious about being gay. Problem solved, baby 😘
Original: https://mikeyclarke.co.nz/blog/2026/1/on-relieving-ones-gay-anxieties-via-robocop-alex-jones-pepe-le-pew-brian-blessed-and-dickhead-avengers-todays-terrible-advice
Hungry for more?
Bullshit Hors D’oeuvres: TERRIBLE ADVICE posts
Enjoy this snazzy sampling of hintCLICKABLEhint crowd-pleasers:
The trembly tragedy of Darth Plagueis the Wise: today's TERRIBLE advice
“That's some phd level answer you have written in your article Really loved it Thanks for sharing and keep writing 💫”
The earthy wisdom of elongating your womb into adjacent postcodes: today's TERRIBLE advice
“Substack needs more of this glorious creative chaos. The 'separate postcode' theory is a masterpiece of terrible wisdom. Keeping this in mind for the next time life gets too loud”
On scheming bitches, Antarctic science side quests, extra-gorgeous ponies, and the Zodiac Killer: today's TERRIBLE advice
“What really impressed me is the hidden discipline underneath the silliness. That's why it never feels like random internet humor. It feels orchestrated. Like jazz. The notes sound improvised, but the musician knows exactly where the beat is.”
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?