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Breaking John: Brenda’s Desperate Plea

I thought I’d left the chaos of Brenda and John Price behind on the tropical island, but peace was never truly in the cards. A few weeks after my return, Brenda barged back into my life like a lasagna-scented hurricane.

She showed up at my door unannounced, clutching a casserole dish in one hand and a stack of binders in the other.

“Sweetie,” she said, shoving past me before I could protest, “we have a problem. And by ‘we,’ I mean you’re going to help me fix it.”

“Brenda,” I groaned, “I’m not getting involved in whatever insane scheme you’ve cooked up this time. I’ve had enough plushies and lasagna for a lifetime.”

“Oh, but this isn’t just about lasagna,” she said, setting the casserole down with a dramatic thud. “It’s about saving my son. He’s spiraling, sweetie. Spiraling!”

I didn’t want to ask. I knew whatever she said next would be ridiculous. But the look in her eyes—a mix of desperation and thinly veiled rage—convinced me it was safer to humor her.

“Spiraling how?”

Brenda opened one of the binders, revealing an organized but deeply disturbing collection of photographs, screenshots, and handwritten notes.

“This,” she said, pointing to a grainy picture of John sitting in his bedroom, surrounded by plushies. “This is where it starts. He’s been sneaking off to buy more of them—squirreling away plushies like a raccoon with a credit card!”

I shrugged. “That’s not so bad. Plushie collecting is weird, sure, but harmless—”

She cut me off by flipping the page to a photo I immediately wished I hadn’t seen. John, half-naked, clutching a giant teddy bear in what could only be described as a compromising position.

“Sweetie,” Brenda said, her voice low, “he’s not just collecting them. He’s… using them.”

I recoiled. “Why are you showing me this?!”

“Because I need your help,” she said, slamming the binder shut. “You’re the only one who’s ever stood up to him. The only one who sees through his nonsense. You can talk some sense into him.”

“No, I can’t,” I said, backing away. “This is your problem, Brenda. I’m not getting involved in your family drama.”

Brenda wasn’t giving up that easily.

She opened another binder labeled “Operation Clean Break” and began outlining her plan like a general preparing for battle.

“We’ll stage an intervention,” she said. “You, me, and a carefully curated group of plushie-free individuals. We’ll confront him, destroy the tainted plushies, and set him on the path to recovery.”

“You’re insane,” I said, crossing my arms. “What makes you think I want to be a part of this?”

“Because,” Brenda said, her eyes narrowing, “you owe me.”

“Owe you? For what?”

“For not letting John destroy you with that lasagna livestream!” she snapped. “Do you have any idea how many people wanted to turn you into a meme? I shut it down, sweetie. Me! So now it’s your turn to do something for me.”

Against my better judgment, I agreed to a “trial run” of her intervention plan.

The next day, Brenda dragged me to John’s house, armed with a garbage bag and a plate of lasagna meant to serve as both a distraction and a peace offering.

When we entered his room, the sight was even worse than Brenda’s binder had prepared me for. Plushies were everywhere—stacked to the ceiling, spilling out of closets, and covering every available surface. In the middle of it all was John, cradling a stuffed dolphin like it was his soulmate.

“Mom? What are you doing here?” he asked, his voice wary.

Brenda pushed me forward. “We’re here to talk, sweetie. About your… problem.”

John’s eyes darted between us, his grip on the dolphin tightening. “I don’t have a problem.”

“Oh, yes, you do,” Brenda said, hands on her hips. “And we’re here to fix it. Tell him,” she added, nudging me.

“Uh…” I hesitated, struggling to find the right words. “John, maybe it’s time to… you know, take a break from the plushies?”

He scowled. “You don’t understand. They’re my comfort. My passion. My life!”

Brenda groaned, throwing up her hands. “Your life? John, you’re 45 years old! It’s time to find a new hobby that doesn’t involve humping inanimate objects!”

“Don’t judge me!” he shouted, clutching the dolphin tighter. “You’ve never understood me!”

“And I never will if you keep… doing whatever it is you’re doing!”

The argument escalated into chaos. Brenda started grabbing plushies and stuffing them into the garbage bag while John tried to wrestle them away from her, screaming about their “emotional significance.”

Meanwhile, I stood there, wondering how my life had come to this.

“You promised you’d help!” Brenda shouted at me as she and John engaged in a tug-of-war over a giant stuffed panda.

“I didn’t sign up for this!” I yelled back.

Finally, John broke free, clutching the panda like a victorious warrior. “You’ll never take them from me!” he cried, retreating into his closet and slamming the door.

Brenda sighed, collapsing onto the bed. “Sweetie,” she said, glaring at me, “this isn’t over.”

“It is for me,” I said, heading for the door. “Good luck with your intervention.”

As I walked out, I could hear Brenda muttering to herself about “phase two” and “calling in reinforcements.” Whatever she had planned next, I wanted no part of it.

But something told me I hadn’t seen the last of Brenda, John, or their plushie-fueled madness.
 
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SoupNazi said:
Breaking John: Brenda’s Desperate Plea

I thought I’d left the chaos of Brenda and John Price behind on the tropical island, but peace was never truly in the cards. A few weeks after my return, Brenda barged back into my life like a lasagna-scented hurricane.

She showed up at my door unannounced, clutching a casserole dish in one hand and a stack of binders in the other.

“Sweetie,” she said, shoving past me before I could protest, “we have a problem. And by ‘we,’ I mean you’re going to help me fix it.”

“Brenda,” I groaned, “I’m not getting involved in whatever insane scheme you’ve cooked up this time. I’ve had enough plushies and lasagna for a lifetime.”

“Oh, but this isn’t just about lasagna,” she said, setting the casserole down with a dramatic thud. “It’s about saving my son. He’s spiraling, sweetie. Spiraling!”

I didn’t want to ask. I knew whatever she said next would be ridiculous. But the look in her eyes—a mix of desperation and thinly veiled rage—convinced me it was safer to humor her.

“Spiraling how?”

Brenda opened one of the binders, revealing an organized but deeply disturbing collection of photographs, screenshots, and handwritten notes.

“This,” she said, pointing to a grainy picture of John sitting in his bedroom, surrounded by plushies. “This is where it starts. He’s been sneaking off to buy more of them—squirreling away plushies like a raccoon with a credit card!”

I shrugged. “That’s not so bad. Plushie collecting is weird, sure, but harmless—”

She cut me off by flipping the page to a photo I immediately wished I hadn’t seen. John, half-naked, clutching a giant teddy bear in what could only be described as a compromising position.

“Sweetie,” Brenda said, her voice low, “he’s not just collecting them. He’s… using them.”

I recoiled. “Why are you showing me this?!”

“Because I need your help,” she said, slamming the binder shut. “You’re the only one who’s ever stood up to him. The only one who sees through his nonsense. You can talk some sense into him.”

“No, I can’t,” I said, backing away. “This is your problem, Brenda. I’m not getting involved in your family drama.”

Brenda wasn’t giving up that easily.

She opened another binder labeled “Operation Clean Break” and began outlining her plan like a general preparing for battle.

“We’ll stage an intervention,” she said. “You, me, and a carefully curated group of plushie-free individuals. We’ll confront him, destroy the tainted plushies, and set him on the path to recovery.”

“You’re insane,” I said, crossing my arms. “What makes you think I want to be a part of this?”

“Because,” Brenda said, her eyes narrowing, “you owe me.”

“Owe you? For what?”

“For not letting John destroy you with that lasagna livestream!” she snapped. “Do you have any idea how many people wanted to turn you into a meme? I shut it down, sweetie. Me! So now it’s your turn to do something for me.”

Against my better judgment, I agreed to a “trial run” of her intervention plan.

The next day, Brenda dragged me to John’s house, armed with a garbage bag and a plate of lasagna meant to serve as both a distraction and a peace offering.

When we entered his room, the sight was even worse than Brenda’s binder had prepared me for. Plushies were everywhere—stacked to the ceiling, spilling out of closets, and covering every available surface. In the middle of it all was John, cradling a stuffed dolphin like it was his soulmate.

“Mom? What are you doing here?” he asked, his voice wary.

Brenda pushed me forward. “We’re here to talk, sweetie. About your… problem.”

John’s eyes darted between us, his grip on the dolphin tightening. “I don’t have a problem.”

“Oh, yes, you do,” Brenda said, hands on her hips. “And we’re here to fix it. Tell him,” she added, nudging me.

“Uh…” I hesitated, struggling to find the right words. “John, maybe it’s time to… you know, take a break from the plushies?”

He scowled. “You don’t understand. They’re my comfort. My passion. My life!”

Brenda groaned, throwing up her hands. “Your life? John, you’re 45 years old! It’s time to find a new hobby that doesn’t involve humping inanimate objects!”

“Don’t judge me!” he shouted, clutching the dolphin tighter. “You’ve never understood me!”

“And I never will if you keep… doing whatever it is you’re doing!”

The argument escalated into chaos. Brenda started grabbing plushies and stuffing them into the garbage bag while John tried to wrestle them away from her, screaming about their “emotional significance.”

Meanwhile, I stood there, wondering how my life had come to this.

“You promised you’d help!” Brenda shouted at me as she and John engaged in a tug-of-war over a giant stuffed panda.

“I didn’t sign up for this!” I yelled back.

Finally, John broke free, clutching the panda like a victorious warrior. “You’ll never take them from me!” he cried, retreating into his closet and slamming the door.

Brenda sighed, collapsing onto the bed. “Sweetie,” she said, glaring at me, “this isn’t over.”

“It is for me,” I said, heading for the door. “Good luck with your intervention.”

As I walked out, I could hear Brenda muttering to herself about “phase two” and “calling in reinforcements.” Whatever she had planned next, I wanted no part of it.

But something told me I hadn’t seen the last of Brenda, John, or their plushie-fueled madness.
Click to expand...
 
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the only "desperate pleas" you should be writing about is asking the antonettis to do something during the off-season. not sure how Cleveland keeps getting a pass to be cheap every year.

there's only so much trash vogt can work with. Stephen Fry 😂

"his name is David idiot"

 
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I don't blame Cleveland fans for being frustrated the Dolans have shown no interest in keeping the team for years now.

They got lucky with a Vogt run but you said yourself they are a Temu baseball team who barely have any talent. Why is that supposed to change this year?

Let me go see how many wins Fangraphs projects Cleveland to have

"Cleveland Guardians kids hit the big time."

:laugh:

such as...

Please. there are no kids there. The real kids to look out for are Dylan Crews and James Wood. Even the young talent in Detroit.
 
SoupNazi said:
Wanted: @John Price

10¢ reward for crimes against plushies
Click to expand...

Frank Fleming's Meltdown: The Soto Saga​

The night was supposed to be a celebration. Citi Field was packed to the brim, a sea of blue and orange buzzing with energy. The Mets had just pulled off the signing of the century, acquiring superstar Juan Soto in a blockbuster deal that had fans dreaming of a World Series. For Frank Fleming, lifelong Mets fan and internet personality, this was his moment.

"Finally!" Frank had declared on his daily livestream. "The Mets are serious about winning. Soto's gonna be the guy to take us all the way!"

But as the game against the Pittsburgh Pirates unfolded, the dream began to unravel. What should have been an easy victory for the Mets turned into a tense, nail-biting affair. The Mets’ bullpen faltered late, allowing the Pirates to tie the game in the eighth inning. By the time the ninth rolled around, it was a classic Mets situation: bases loaded, two outs, and Juan Soto stepping up to the plate.

Frank sat in his usual spot in the stands, hot dog in one hand and phone in the other, ready to capture the magic.

"This is it!" Frank bellowed, his voice booming over the murmurs of anxious fans. "This is why we got him! Soto's gonna deliver!"

The crowd roared as Soto approached the plate, his swagger undeniable. The energy was electric, with chants of "Let's go Mets!" echoing through the stadium. On the mound, Pirates closer David Bednar looked calm, almost smug.

The first pitch zipped past Soto—a blazing fastball that he swung through, missing by inches.

"Alright, alright," Frank muttered, his tone still confident. "He’s just warming up. No big deal."

The second pitch was a nasty slider that dove out of the strike zone. Soto swung again and missed.

Frank’s face began to tighten. "Stop swinging at garbage! C'mon, Soto, you're better than this!"

The count was 0-2. Bednar delivered the next pitch: a high fastball. Soto held his swing. Ball one.

"Good eye!" Frank yelled, clapping. "Now lock in!"

The next pitch was a curveball that floated tantalizingly into the strike zone. Soto unleashed a mighty swing but came up empty. Strike three. Game over. The Pirates celebrated on the mound as the Mets fans groaned in collective agony.

For a moment, Frank was silent, staring at the field in disbelief. Then it happened.

"Are you kidding me?!" Frank exploded, his voice echoing across the now-silent stands. "This is what we paid for? THIS?! A strikeout with the game on the line? Classic Mets! Classic!"

He stood up, pacing the row of seats like a caged animal. "All that hype! All that money! And he can't even make contact? What are we, the New York Strikouts now? Someone get me Steve Cohen on the phone! I’ve got some words for him!"

Nearby fans started filming as Frank's rant grew louder. "We gave up our entire farm system for THIS? Soto's supposed to be a superstar! I could’ve struck out for half the price!"

His phone buzzed with notifications as the video of his tirade went viral in real-time. Fans online were divided—some laughing, others sympathizing with Frank's heartbreak.

By the time Frank stormed out of the stadium, he was already trending on Twitter. The hashtag #FrankFreakout was accompanied by memes of Soto swinging at invisible pitches and Frank's now-iconic scream: "CLASSIC METS!"

As he sat in the parking lot, recording a follow-up video for his followers, Frank took a deep breath.

"Look," he said, still fuming but slightly calmer. "I'm not giving up on Soto. But he better deliver next game, or I’m switching to the Brooklyn Cyclones."

Mets fans everywhere knew one thing for sure: Frank Fleming would never change, and neither, it seemed, would the Mets.
 
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Frank Fleming’s Guardians Offseason Rant: “WHERE’S THE MOVES, CLE?!”​

The snow had barely settled on Progressive Field, but for Frank Fleming, the Cleveland Guardians’ offseason had already become unbearable. Sitting in his basement, wrapped in a faded Guardians blanket and glaring at his laptop screen, Frank fired up his livestream. The title of the broadcast said it all: "Cleveland Guardians: The Masters of Doing NOTHING."

He leaned into the camera, his face a mix of rage and disbelief. "Alright, folks, I need to get this off my chest. What in the name of Chief Wahoo’s ghost are the Cleveland Guardians doing this offseason?! Nothing! Nada! Zilch! It's a complete DISGRACE!"

He slammed his fist on the desk for emphasis. "We’re sitting here watching the rest of the league make moves. The Yankees? Spending like they’re allergic to having money in the bank. The Braves? Stacking talent like it’s Pokémon cards. The Mets? I mean, come on, even THEY are trying! But us? The Cleveland Guardians? We're over here dumpster diving for players who probably wouldn’t even make the roster of a beer-league softball team!"

Frank waved a piece of paper in front of the camera. "You know what this is? It’s our list of acquisitions so far. Wanna know what’s on it? NOTHING. It’s blank! Just like the front office’s sense of urgency!"
 
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