Waps of inconceivable vastness and splendour: 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:
Nic asks
My b00bs keep growing; I am worried the devil is coming to collect my soul soon.
Long story short, when I was in high school, I jokingly made a pact with the devil for bigger b00bs. I figured it didn't work, but 15 years later, my b00bs won't stop growing. I went up 3 cup sizes in the last 6 months.
How can I undo this and save my soul?
My answer
A few ways around this:
(1) Ever heard of Ögedei Khan? He was a Mongol chieftan centuries ago, (one of Genghiz's sons) and a drunkard. His overlord told him to cut down to one cup of booze a day or it's curtains. He complied by using a cup the size of a monsoon bucket. Why not do the same? Shout from every rooftop your adoption of your glorious new A-cup bra. Turns out the cups are full-sized interstellar satellite dishes. NASA might eventually want their Voyager-comms systems back, though they've got mighty fine heads on their shoulders, I'm sure they'll realise you're putting their kit to fine use.
(2) Calories in, calories out, right? Mass in, mass out? Why not become an unusually magnificent wetnurse?
I hear there's a fad amongst bodybuilders these days to use human breast milk as their prime protein source, as it's the milk human digestions are most suited to. What's the ratio of litres to cup sizes these days? Only three cup sizes in six months would barely nourish Pee Wee Herman ... hm. What were the exact terms of your devil-pact? Why not sustain beefier bloke(s)? Ever considered additional pacts with additional demons to produce waps of truly inconceivable vastness and splendour? (If it's not a personal question? [1])
Approach Beelzebub, Lucifer, Pluto, Cthulhu, even Ellen DeGeneres, why not? You could be just the gal to provide bounty and sustenance imperishable to entire nations' Olympic Games teams. Just imagine the opening ceremony: the [Your-Country-Here] team enters the ceremony venue trotting in formation, trussed and kitted up as dray horsies, hauling a colossal golden chariot housing (2a) a vast sloshy open-topped reservoir of delectable neon lactic ambrosia; (2b) a pair of colossal over-taxed hydro turbines hooked up to your waps and doing their damndest to pump and quailing at the backlog; and, last but not least: (2c) your resplendent gleaming self, reclining supine and gorgeous on a magnificent golden throne.
You're eating lembas or something by the cubic mile, or anything with the insane caloric densities required to maintain yield, and you're hollering at the more novice Help that your boobs' equatorial provinces respond most happily to the really vicious Thai massages, but their temperate regions require a teensy bit more sweet-talking, and rather more pliant, sensual fondling. Yeah. Like that. That's it! Perfect! Now, those latest twelve temps, yeah the exquisite ones, they will plumpen and polish your areolas until they can see their faces in them, for you'd promised Bhutan's yachting teams that tomorrow's Second Brekkie will be extra-creamy. For you are a woman of your goddamn word. Now they'd better hop to it or their splintered bones will fortify Third Brekkie.
What modern woman wouldn't thirst for all that? It'd be awesome. The Devil (that dude you'd made your original b00b-based pact with; remember him?) will no doubt become so flabbergasted and overawed by your breastly magnificence that he'd return not only your soul, but the souls of every deceased Olympic wetnurse in his archives. You may have company. And worshippers.
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Original: https://mikeyclarke.co.nz/blog/2022/5/waps-of-inconceivable-vastness-and-splendour-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?
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Part Three: The Cervical Supremacy
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Part Four: The Praetorian Prostitutes
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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?
Bahahahahah this is comic genius - hilarious