I figured it stood for Top Pedophiles on Twitter, and this is still the only evidence I've seen that that isn't what it stands for.

Why has my life lead up to being perfectly prepared to write parody Less Wrong romance fiction instead of something... I don't know ... beneficial to humanity?

Rachel looked essentially identical to almost every other adult female Homo sapiens. There were trivial deviations here and there but everything was clearly within normal parameters. It was a pattern that evolution had programmed Blake to like. And he liked it very much indeed.

"I started out with bad priors about you, Blake. About all of Pastryton really. But I've updated them now."

"As it should be, Rachel. As it should be."

"That's not the only thing I've updated my priors about lately."

Finally, Blake couldn't resist a second more. It was not when he planned it, but he couldn't hold it in any longer. Blake spontaneously popped the question! "Do you like Harry Potter and/or rational thinking? Do you want to be less wrong?"

"Yes!" Rachel cried out with her whole soul. "Oh yes, oh yes, oh yes!" She tackled him and they rolled around for an hour. It was amazing how femininely she could roll and how masculinely he could roll and how perfectly they rolled together, like two ball bearings milled for the same track. They rolled on the thing she had put down on the grass for them to have their picnic upon. Blake wasn't sure whether it was supposed to be a tablecloth or a blanket. The pattern on it looked more like gingham than flannel, but he wasn't an expert. He would have to ask his sister about it. But that could wait for later. When he was done rolling.

Blake couldn't wait to rip Rachel's bodice. He turned on his computer so that he could Google where the bodice would be located. He wanted to be prepared. It was good that the Internet had finally come to Pastryton.

Suddenly, inspiration hit Blake like a deer hits the grill of a mint condition Chevy on a foggy night. "Boda" was Spanish for wedding. "Bodice" was probably French for wedding-thing. You needed to know a lot of French to be an expert baker. But Blake didn't have a whole lot of other opportunities to use his French in Pastryton. He hoped Rachel would like him using his French on her. All of his French. On her.

Just like how in Minecraft if you line two chests up next to each other you make a big chest, Rachel's two breasts lined up perfectly to make a big chest. "She's at the peak of evolutionary fitness!" Blake thought through his masculine flannel hat. It made him proud to be a mammal.

Rachel wanted to make pastries with Blake more than she had ever wanted anything in her life. She didn't know if they would make a big handsome croissant or some cute little danishes, but at this point she didn't care. Her gastronomical clock was ticking.

Blake had never felt the way he felt about Rachel about anyone since that time he showed Kayla how to strafe in Purple Heart 2. He still remembered the feel of his big, manly hands gently touching her controller, pressing her buttons expertly. They strafed together all afternoon, gigglingly. He had a manly giggle. But that was before he learned how to really sift flour. It takes a tough man to make flour smooth as silk.

Blake was so interested in Rachel cladistically. "If my priors are correct, there's a 98.3% chance you want me," Blake said suggestively. "That's good enough for me."

"Oh yes! I want you with all my gene pool!" she exclaimed. Blake's priors were correct. Her bakery had finally found meaning.

Thinking about Rachel made Blake as hard as a Rubik's Cube. But Rubik's Cubes are only hard if you don't know the trick, and Blake knew the trick. He could solve a Rubik's Cube in 5.9 seconds. It was not the only thing Blake could do in 5.9 seconds, Rachel noted approving.

since you claim you can’t measure this even as a thought experiment, there’s nothing to discus

You're going to have to lose the LessWrongy superstition that you have to be able to assign numbers to something for it to be meaningful. Sometimes when talking about this big, messy, complicated world, your error bars are so large that assigning any number at all would be meaningless and lead to error. That doesn't mean you can't talk qualitatively about what you do know or believe.