John Price
pro gambler/drinker
- Sep 19, 2008
- 389,986
- 32,553
Useless Thread MCMXCIX: Miss Piggy Appreciation Thread
- Thread starter GIADF
- Start date
- Status
John Price
pro gambler/drinker
- Sep 19, 2008
- 389,986
- 32,553
didn't he play for the Guardians lol
On January 7, 2021, the Mets traded Rosario, Andrés Giménez, Josh Wolf, and Isaiah Greene to the Cleveland Indians for Francisco Lindor and Carlos Carrasco.[22][23] In March 2021, the Indians began transitioning Rosario into a role as an outfielder with the help of coach Kyle Hudson, implicitly giving the starting shortstop job to Giménez.[24][25] During Rosario's first three innings in the outfield during a spring training game, he committed three errors which led to eight unearned runs being scored.[24] Rosario's only prior experience in the outfield was three innings spent in left field with the Mets in 2019.[25] Giménez was demoted to the minors on May 18.[26] Around that same time, Rosario became the team's regular starting shortstop.[27] On August 31 against the Kansas City Royals, Rosario went 5-for-5 with a career-high 5 RBIs. It included two home runs, one being the first inside-the-park home run in his career.[28][29] Rosario finished the 2021 season batting .282/.321/.409 with 11 home runs, 57 RBIs, 77 runs and 13 stolen bases in 141 games.[17]
In 2022 he led the major leagues with nine triples, and had the lowest walk percentage among major league batters (3.7%), while batting .283/.312/.403 with 86 runs, 11 home runs, and 18 steals in 22 attempts.[17] He led the major leagues in infield hits, with 35.[30]
Sega Dreamcast
party like it's 1999
John Price
pro gambler/drinker
- Sep 19, 2008
- 389,986
- 32,553
it was a quote from Predator ! when Arnold reunites with Dillon
Another one (from Total Recall)
"What the f*** did I do wrong? Tell me!"
"You blabbed!"
John Price
pro gambler/drinker
- Sep 19, 2008
- 389,986
- 32,553
"Hey Ton, you see that Dark Knight rises meme on instagram? Ton? He he."
I'm the Paulie of this HF "Social Club". Everyone loves it.
@End of Line Tony freaking out in his coma when Paulie starts talking to him
I'm the Paulie of this HF "Social Club". Everyone loves it.
@End of Line Tony freaking out in his coma when Paulie starts talking to him
End of Line
Sic Semper Tyrannis
- Mar 20, 2009
- 29,882
- 7,661
"Hey Ton, you see that Dark Knight rises meme on instagram? Ton? He he."
I'm the Paulie of this HF "Social Club". Everyone loves it.
@End of Line Tony freaking out in his coma when Paulie starts talking to him
You’re Vito on here
John Price
pro gambler/drinker
- Sep 19, 2008
- 389,986
- 32,553
Oogie Boogie
Registered User
- Apr 9, 2011
- 24,332
- 3,349
John Price
pro gambler/drinker
- Sep 19, 2008
- 389,986
- 32,553
Nationals fans hate the Amed Rosario signing. f*** I wish this front office would spend for big contracts. They seem content with one year deals on washed up players who they then flip for picks and other prospects.
Not the way to build a title contender. Smh
Not the way to build a title contender. Smh
SoupNazi
Global Moderator
- Feb 6, 2010
- 27,812
- 19,035
The Plushie Revolution Escalates
I thought that snowy park debacle would be the end of Brenda and John’s reign of plushie terror. I thought wrong. A week later, they escalated their crusade, and this time, they didn’t bother tracking me down—they made me part of their plans without my consent.
It started with an email. The subject line read: “A Cry for Unity – Plushies Need YOU!” Against my better judgment, I clicked it.
Inside was a long, rambling message from Brenda, filled with her trademark dramatic flair:
From: [email protected]
To: [Redacted]
Subject: A Cry for Unity – Plushies Need YOU!
Dear Sweetie,
I’m writing this as an olive branch. I know our little misunderstanding at the park was a lot for you, but the Plushie Redemption Initiative is bigger than all of us now. The world NEEDS plushies, and plushies need YOU.
John’s addiction—let’s call it what it is—has created controversy, but with the right messaging, we can spin this into something meaningful. I’ve drafted a press release, booked us a booth at the mall’s Winter Wonderland event, and designed matching outfits for the team (yes, that includes you).
Together, we can show the world the true power of plushies and lasagna. Please don’t let me down.
P.S. John’s banned from touching the plushies now. Baby steps.
Love and fluff,
Brenda
I groaned. Somehow, Brenda had managed to rope me into her madness again without even asking. But when I ignored the email, she upped the ante.
The next morning, I opened my front door to find a box on my porch. Inside was a disturbingly cheerful snowman plushie, a plate of lasagna wrapped in foil, and a note that read:
“Resistance is futile, sweetie. See you at the Winter Wonderland booth! XO, Brenda.”
Curiosity got the better of me, and on Saturday, I found myself at the mall, weaving through crowds of families and holiday shoppers. I wasn’t planning to stop by their booth, but I didn’t have to—Brenda and John had set up camp in the busiest area, right next to Santa’s grotto.
Their booth was a chaotic spectacle. A giant sign overhead read, “PLUSHIES & PASTA: A WINTER MIRACLE,” and the table was piled high with stuffed animals, steaming trays of lasagna, and what appeared to be a donation jar labeled “John’s Redemption Fund.”
Brenda was in full saleswoman mode, handing out plushies and lasagna samples with the enthusiasm of someone running for public office. John, meanwhile, stood awkwardly behind the table, visibly uncomfortable but trying to put on a brave face.
“Sweetie!” Brenda shouted when she spotted me. She waved so vigorously that her oven mitts nearly flew off. “You came!”
“Not by choice,” I muttered, as she hustled over and dragged me to the booth.
“You’re just in time!” Brenda said, shoving a plate of lasagna into my hands. “We’ve been a hit with the kids, but the parents are skeptical. That’s where you come in.”
“Where I come in?” I asked.
She leaned in close, dropping her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “You’re the relatable one. The everyman. If people see you endorsing us, they’ll think, ‘Wow, this must be legit.’”
“I’m not endorsing anything,” I said, glancing around for an escape route.
But before I could leave, a crowd started gathering. A little boy approached the booth, his eyes lighting up as he reached for a plushie reindeer.
“Not that one!” Brenda barked, snatching the reindeer away. “That’s a premium plushie. You can have the snowman.”
The boy’s face crumpled. His mother glared at Brenda.
“Maybe you’d sell more if you weren’t so stingy,” the woman snapped.
Brenda plastered on a fake smile. “Oh, we’re not selling anything. We’re promoting a lifestyle—plushies and lasagna for everyone!”
“Then why is there a donation jar?” the woman shot back.
“That’s… for John’s therapy fund,” Brenda said, visibly flustered.
As tensions rose, John began to panic. In a desperate attempt to salvage the situation, he grabbed a microphone from the booth and started talking.
“Plushies saved my life!” he announced, his voice echoing through the mall. “They’re more than just toys—they’re companions. And my mom’s lasagna? It’s a miracle cure for the soul!”
The crowd stared, equal parts confused and horrified.
“John,” Brenda hissed, “what are you doing?”
“I’m spreading the word!” he said, his voice cracking. “People need to know the truth!”
He climbed onto the table, knocking over a tray of lasagna in the process. “Join us in the Plushie Revolution!” he shouted, throwing stuffed animals into the crowd.
Chaos erupted. Kids scrambled for the plushies while their parents yelled about safety hazards. One man slipped on a lasagna noodle and went sprawling into a display of holiday wreaths.
I used the distraction to quietly back away, but Brenda spotted me.
“Sweetie!” she called, running after me. “You can’t leave now! We need you!”
“You don’t need me,” I said, dodging a flying snowman plushie. “What you need is a therapist. Maybe two.”
“But we’re so close to breaking through!” she pleaded.
“Breaking through to what? A restraining order?”
Before she could respond, mall security arrived, and the scene devolved into even more chaos. John, still clutching the microphone, tried to make a run for it, but he tripped over a stuffed penguin and went down hard. Brenda, ever the mastermind, attempted to negotiate with the guards, but it was no use.
I left the mall that day vowing, once again, to cut all ties with Brenda and John. But as I walked to my car, I couldn’t shake the feeling that this wasn’t the last I’d hear from them.
Because if there’s one thing I’d learned about Brenda, it’s that she never gives up. And when it comes to John and his plushies, there’s no telling how far she’ll go.
I thought that snowy park debacle would be the end of Brenda and John’s reign of plushie terror. I thought wrong. A week later, they escalated their crusade, and this time, they didn’t bother tracking me down—they made me part of their plans without my consent.
It started with an email. The subject line read: “A Cry for Unity – Plushies Need YOU!” Against my better judgment, I clicked it.
Inside was a long, rambling message from Brenda, filled with her trademark dramatic flair:
From: [email protected]
To: [Redacted]
Subject: A Cry for Unity – Plushies Need YOU!
Dear Sweetie,
I’m writing this as an olive branch. I know our little misunderstanding at the park was a lot for you, but the Plushie Redemption Initiative is bigger than all of us now. The world NEEDS plushies, and plushies need YOU.
John’s addiction—let’s call it what it is—has created controversy, but with the right messaging, we can spin this into something meaningful. I’ve drafted a press release, booked us a booth at the mall’s Winter Wonderland event, and designed matching outfits for the team (yes, that includes you).
Together, we can show the world the true power of plushies and lasagna. Please don’t let me down.
P.S. John’s banned from touching the plushies now. Baby steps.
Love and fluff,
Brenda
I groaned. Somehow, Brenda had managed to rope me into her madness again without even asking. But when I ignored the email, she upped the ante.
The next morning, I opened my front door to find a box on my porch. Inside was a disturbingly cheerful snowman plushie, a plate of lasagna wrapped in foil, and a note that read:
“Resistance is futile, sweetie. See you at the Winter Wonderland booth! XO, Brenda.”
Curiosity got the better of me, and on Saturday, I found myself at the mall, weaving through crowds of families and holiday shoppers. I wasn’t planning to stop by their booth, but I didn’t have to—Brenda and John had set up camp in the busiest area, right next to Santa’s grotto.
Their booth was a chaotic spectacle. A giant sign overhead read, “PLUSHIES & PASTA: A WINTER MIRACLE,” and the table was piled high with stuffed animals, steaming trays of lasagna, and what appeared to be a donation jar labeled “John’s Redemption Fund.”
Brenda was in full saleswoman mode, handing out plushies and lasagna samples with the enthusiasm of someone running for public office. John, meanwhile, stood awkwardly behind the table, visibly uncomfortable but trying to put on a brave face.
“Sweetie!” Brenda shouted when she spotted me. She waved so vigorously that her oven mitts nearly flew off. “You came!”
“Not by choice,” I muttered, as she hustled over and dragged me to the booth.
“You’re just in time!” Brenda said, shoving a plate of lasagna into my hands. “We’ve been a hit with the kids, but the parents are skeptical. That’s where you come in.”
“Where I come in?” I asked.
She leaned in close, dropping her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “You’re the relatable one. The everyman. If people see you endorsing us, they’ll think, ‘Wow, this must be legit.’”
“I’m not endorsing anything,” I said, glancing around for an escape route.
But before I could leave, a crowd started gathering. A little boy approached the booth, his eyes lighting up as he reached for a plushie reindeer.
“Not that one!” Brenda barked, snatching the reindeer away. “That’s a premium plushie. You can have the snowman.”
The boy’s face crumpled. His mother glared at Brenda.
“Maybe you’d sell more if you weren’t so stingy,” the woman snapped.
Brenda plastered on a fake smile. “Oh, we’re not selling anything. We’re promoting a lifestyle—plushies and lasagna for everyone!”
“Then why is there a donation jar?” the woman shot back.
“That’s… for John’s therapy fund,” Brenda said, visibly flustered.
As tensions rose, John began to panic. In a desperate attempt to salvage the situation, he grabbed a microphone from the booth and started talking.
“Plushies saved my life!” he announced, his voice echoing through the mall. “They’re more than just toys—they’re companions. And my mom’s lasagna? It’s a miracle cure for the soul!”
The crowd stared, equal parts confused and horrified.
“John,” Brenda hissed, “what are you doing?”
“I’m spreading the word!” he said, his voice cracking. “People need to know the truth!”
He climbed onto the table, knocking over a tray of lasagna in the process. “Join us in the Plushie Revolution!” he shouted, throwing stuffed animals into the crowd.
Chaos erupted. Kids scrambled for the plushies while their parents yelled about safety hazards. One man slipped on a lasagna noodle and went sprawling into a display of holiday wreaths.
I used the distraction to quietly back away, but Brenda spotted me.
“Sweetie!” she called, running after me. “You can’t leave now! We need you!”
“You don’t need me,” I said, dodging a flying snowman plushie. “What you need is a therapist. Maybe two.”
“But we’re so close to breaking through!” she pleaded.
“Breaking through to what? A restraining order?”
Before she could respond, mall security arrived, and the scene devolved into even more chaos. John, still clutching the microphone, tried to make a run for it, but he tripped over a stuffed penguin and went down hard. Brenda, ever the mastermind, attempted to negotiate with the guards, but it was no use.
I left the mall that day vowing, once again, to cut all ties with Brenda and John. But as I walked to my car, I couldn’t shake the feeling that this wasn’t the last I’d hear from them.
Because if there’s one thing I’d learned about Brenda, it’s that she never gives up. And when it comes to John and his plushies, there’s no telling how far she’ll go.
John Price
pro gambler/drinker
- Sep 19, 2008
- 389,986
- 32,553
SoupNazi
Global Moderator
- Feb 6, 2010
- 27,812
- 19,035
The Plushie Revolution Hits Rock Bottom
I thought the mall incident would finally bring an end to Brenda and John’s madness. Surely, getting escorted out by mall security while kids cried over soiled plushies and parents demanded refunds would be enough to break their spirits.
But Brenda and John were nothing if not relentless. The very next day, Brenda called me at 6 a.m., her voice chipper and terrifyingly determined.
“Sweetie,” she said, “we’ve had a breakthrough!”
“I don’t want to hear about it,” I mumbled, still half-asleep.
“Oh, but you do. This is the moment we’ve been waiting for. The Plushie Revolution is going global! Meet us at the diner in an hour.”
Before I could argue, she hung up.
An hour later, I found myself sitting across from Brenda and John in a dingy diner that smelled faintly of grease and despair. Brenda had a notebook open, scribbling furiously, while John stared blankly at a plate of pancakes.
“I don’t know why I’m here,” I said, sipping my coffee.
“You’re here because you’re part of the team,” Brenda said without looking up.
“I’m not part of anything.”
She ignored me and turned to John. “Tell him about the idea.”
John shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “Uh, well, we were brainstorming last night…”
“After he pinched out a log,” Brenda interjected proudly, as though this were a crucial detail.
“Mom!” John hissed, his face turning red.
“What? It’s important to get the mind clear before big ideas come, sweetie. Anyway, tell him!”
John sighed. “We’re launching a new brand: Plushies for the Soul. It’s going to be huge.”
I blinked. “Plushies for the Soul?”
Brenda leaned forward, her eyes gleaming with excitement. “Imagine it: motivational plushies! Each one comes with an inspirational message. Like a teddy bear that says, ‘You’re stronger than you think,’ or a penguin that reminds you to ‘Slide into success!’”
“And a panda that says, ‘Pinch out a log of your worries!’” John added with a grin.
I stared at them in disbelief. “You can’t be serious.”
“Oh, we’re dead serious,” Brenda said. “We’re not just selling plushies anymore—we’re selling hope.”
Despite my better judgment, I stayed long enough to hear their plan. Brenda had already booked a booth at the upcoming Winter Festival in the town square, and she wanted me to play the role of “brand ambassador.”
“You’re relatable,” she said. “People trust you. You’ve got that everyman charm, sweetie.”
“I don’t want anything to do with this,” I said, pushing back my chair.
Brenda grabbed my arm before I could leave. “Think of the children,” she said, her voice dripping with melodrama. “Think of the people out there who are struggling. Don’t they deserve a plushie to remind them they’re not alone?”
“And don’t forget,” John added, “the pandas are really soft.”
Against all logic, I found myself at the Winter Festival two days later, standing in front of their booth. Snow was falling softly, kids were laughing, and the air smelled like roasted chestnuts and impending regret.
The booth was decorated with banners that read, “PLUSHIES FOR THE SOUL: HUG YOUR TROUBLES AWAY!” Brenda was in her element, handing out plushies and delivering inspirational speeches to anyone who would listen.
John, meanwhile, had taken it upon himself to demonstrate the plushies’ “comfort factor” by hugging a giant stuffed sloth and muttering affirmations under his breath.
At first, things went surprisingly well. Parents seemed intrigued, kids loved the plushies, and Brenda was on her best behavior.
But then John decided to get creative.
“Who here has worries?” he shouted, climbing onto a milk crate. “Let me tell you about how plushies helped me pinch out a log of fear and find my inner peace!”
A hush fell over the crowd. Parents exchanged confused looks while kids giggled.
Brenda’s face turned red. “John,” she hissed, pulling him down from the crate, “what did I tell you about the logmetaphor?”
“It’s relatable!” he protested.
“Not to normal people!” she snapped.
The turning point came when a particularly skeptical dad approached the booth, arms crossed.
“What’s the catch?” he asked. “You’re not just giving these away for free, are you?”
Brenda gave him her best smile. “Oh, they’re free. We just ask for a small donation to support John’s therapy fund.”
The man frowned. “Therapy fund? For what?”
Before Brenda could answer, John blurted out, “I used to hump plushies, but now I just hug them!”
The man’s jaw dropped. Brenda buried her face in her hands.
“Why?” she moaned. “Why do you always have to overshare?”
“I thought we were being honest!” John said defensively.
The dad walked off in disgust, and the rest of the crowd quickly followed. Within minutes, the booth was deserted.
Brenda glared at John. “You’ve ruined everything!” she hissed.
“I was just trying to help!” he said, hugging the sloth tighter.
I decided it was the perfect time to make my exit. As I walked away, I could hear Brenda muttering about “rebranding” and “focus groups” while John suggested adding more pandas to the lineup.
One thing was clear: the Plushie Revolution wasn’t over. Not by a long shot.
I thought the mall incident would finally bring an end to Brenda and John’s madness. Surely, getting escorted out by mall security while kids cried over soiled plushies and parents demanded refunds would be enough to break their spirits.
But Brenda and John were nothing if not relentless. The very next day, Brenda called me at 6 a.m., her voice chipper and terrifyingly determined.
“Sweetie,” she said, “we’ve had a breakthrough!”
“I don’t want to hear about it,” I mumbled, still half-asleep.
“Oh, but you do. This is the moment we’ve been waiting for. The Plushie Revolution is going global! Meet us at the diner in an hour.”
Before I could argue, she hung up.
An hour later, I found myself sitting across from Brenda and John in a dingy diner that smelled faintly of grease and despair. Brenda had a notebook open, scribbling furiously, while John stared blankly at a plate of pancakes.
“I don’t know why I’m here,” I said, sipping my coffee.
“You’re here because you’re part of the team,” Brenda said without looking up.
“I’m not part of anything.”
She ignored me and turned to John. “Tell him about the idea.”
John shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “Uh, well, we were brainstorming last night…”
“After he pinched out a log,” Brenda interjected proudly, as though this were a crucial detail.
“Mom!” John hissed, his face turning red.
“What? It’s important to get the mind clear before big ideas come, sweetie. Anyway, tell him!”
John sighed. “We’re launching a new brand: Plushies for the Soul. It’s going to be huge.”
I blinked. “Plushies for the Soul?”
Brenda leaned forward, her eyes gleaming with excitement. “Imagine it: motivational plushies! Each one comes with an inspirational message. Like a teddy bear that says, ‘You’re stronger than you think,’ or a penguin that reminds you to ‘Slide into success!’”
“And a panda that says, ‘Pinch out a log of your worries!’” John added with a grin.
I stared at them in disbelief. “You can’t be serious.”
“Oh, we’re dead serious,” Brenda said. “We’re not just selling plushies anymore—we’re selling hope.”
Despite my better judgment, I stayed long enough to hear their plan. Brenda had already booked a booth at the upcoming Winter Festival in the town square, and she wanted me to play the role of “brand ambassador.”
“You’re relatable,” she said. “People trust you. You’ve got that everyman charm, sweetie.”
“I don’t want anything to do with this,” I said, pushing back my chair.
Brenda grabbed my arm before I could leave. “Think of the children,” she said, her voice dripping with melodrama. “Think of the people out there who are struggling. Don’t they deserve a plushie to remind them they’re not alone?”
“And don’t forget,” John added, “the pandas are really soft.”
Against all logic, I found myself at the Winter Festival two days later, standing in front of their booth. Snow was falling softly, kids were laughing, and the air smelled like roasted chestnuts and impending regret.
The booth was decorated with banners that read, “PLUSHIES FOR THE SOUL: HUG YOUR TROUBLES AWAY!” Brenda was in her element, handing out plushies and delivering inspirational speeches to anyone who would listen.
John, meanwhile, had taken it upon himself to demonstrate the plushies’ “comfort factor” by hugging a giant stuffed sloth and muttering affirmations under his breath.
At first, things went surprisingly well. Parents seemed intrigued, kids loved the plushies, and Brenda was on her best behavior.
But then John decided to get creative.
“Who here has worries?” he shouted, climbing onto a milk crate. “Let me tell you about how plushies helped me pinch out a log of fear and find my inner peace!”
A hush fell over the crowd. Parents exchanged confused looks while kids giggled.
Brenda’s face turned red. “John,” she hissed, pulling him down from the crate, “what did I tell you about the logmetaphor?”
“It’s relatable!” he protested.
“Not to normal people!” she snapped.
The turning point came when a particularly skeptical dad approached the booth, arms crossed.
“What’s the catch?” he asked. “You’re not just giving these away for free, are you?”
Brenda gave him her best smile. “Oh, they’re free. We just ask for a small donation to support John’s therapy fund.”
The man frowned. “Therapy fund? For what?”
Before Brenda could answer, John blurted out, “I used to hump plushies, but now I just hug them!”
The man’s jaw dropped. Brenda buried her face in her hands.
“Why?” she moaned. “Why do you always have to overshare?”
“I thought we were being honest!” John said defensively.
The dad walked off in disgust, and the rest of the crowd quickly followed. Within minutes, the booth was deserted.
Brenda glared at John. “You’ve ruined everything!” she hissed.
“I was just trying to help!” he said, hugging the sloth tighter.
I decided it was the perfect time to make my exit. As I walked away, I could hear Brenda muttering about “rebranding” and “focus groups” while John suggested adding more pandas to the lineup.
One thing was clear: the Plushie Revolution wasn’t over. Not by a long shot.
John Price
pro gambler/drinker
- Sep 19, 2008
- 389,986
- 32,553
Frank Fleming was having one of those days. The gruff yet lovable sports podcaster, known for his passionate rants and unwavering loyalty to his teams, had somehow been talked into visiting Los Angeles. His friend had promised him a chance to see a Dodgers game, but before that, they had planned a stop at an upscale restaurant in West Hollywood. Frank wasn’t one for fancy spots, but he figured it couldn’t be worse than some of the hot dog joints he had been to.
The restaurant was called Pump, owned by none other than Lisa Vanderpump, the queen of reality TV and high-end dining. Frank had heard of her—barely. He wasn't much into the glitzy world of The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills or Vanderpump Rules, but he could appreciate anyone who ran a successful business.
As Frank stepped into Pump, he was instantly out of his element. Chandeliers sparkled overhead, lush greenery surrounded the courtyard, and waitstaff moved with an elegance that made him feel like he’d stumbled into a garden party for the rich and famous. His Mets jersey and well-worn cap stood out in stark contrast to the chic crowd.
“Frank, just try to enjoy it,” his friend said, nudging him toward their reserved table.
They had just sat down when a warm, melodic voice floated toward them. “Good evening, darlings! Welcome to Pump.”
Frank looked up to see Lisa Vanderpump herself, as glamorous as he’d imagined, with her signature pink attire and her tiny dog, Puffy, nestled in her arms. She gave them a radiant smile.
“Lisa Vanderpump,” his friend said excitedly, standing up to shake her hand. “This is my buddy, Frank. He’s a bit of a sports legend in his own right.”
Frank stood awkwardly, not quite sure what to say. “Uh, hi. Nice place you got here.”
Lisa’s eyes sparkled with amusement. “Thank you, Frank. And you must be quite the legend if your friend here says so. Are you enjoying Los Angeles?”
“It’s...different,” Frank admitted. “Not quite New Jersey.”
“Oh, darling, I adore New Jersey!” Lisa said with a wink. “Such charm, and the people are so passionate. Tell me, do you have a favorite cocktail? I’d love to have my bartender whip something up for you.”
Frank shifted uncomfortably. “I’m more of a root beer kind of guy.”
Lisa laughed, a sound as light as champagne bubbles. “Root beer it is, then! But you must promise me you’ll try our Pumptini next time—it’s practically a rite of passage here.”
As the evening went on, Frank loosened up. Lisa returned a few times to check on them, and to his surprise, they got to talking. She asked him about his podcast, his love for sports, and even his infamous rants. Frank, in turn, learned about her journey from London to LA, her love for animals, and her knack for creating spaces where people felt at home.
“You know,” Lisa said thoughtfully, “you and I aren’t so different. We’re both passionate about what we do, and we both have a knack for connecting with people.”
Frank snorted. “Yeah, but you do it with class. I mostly just yell about the Mets.”
Lisa grinned. “Passion comes in many forms, Frank. And I can see you care deeply about what you love. That’s what matters.”
By the time they left Pump, Frank had to admit he’d had a good time. Lisa Vanderpump wasn’t just some reality star—she was sharp, kind, and genuine. As he shook her hand goodbye, she slipped him a card.
“Next time you’re in LA, come by Villa Rosa,” she said. “I think you’d love meeting my swans.”
Frank chuckled. “Thanks, Lisa. And if you’re ever in Jersey, I’ll show you a proper Mets game.”
“Deal,” she said with a wink.
As Frank walked out into the LA night, he couldn’t help but smile. He’d come for the Dodgers, but he was leavin
g with a story he’d be telling for years.
The restaurant was called Pump, owned by none other than Lisa Vanderpump, the queen of reality TV and high-end dining. Frank had heard of her—barely. He wasn't much into the glitzy world of The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills or Vanderpump Rules, but he could appreciate anyone who ran a successful business.
As Frank stepped into Pump, he was instantly out of his element. Chandeliers sparkled overhead, lush greenery surrounded the courtyard, and waitstaff moved with an elegance that made him feel like he’d stumbled into a garden party for the rich and famous. His Mets jersey and well-worn cap stood out in stark contrast to the chic crowd.
“Frank, just try to enjoy it,” his friend said, nudging him toward their reserved table.
They had just sat down when a warm, melodic voice floated toward them. “Good evening, darlings! Welcome to Pump.”
Frank looked up to see Lisa Vanderpump herself, as glamorous as he’d imagined, with her signature pink attire and her tiny dog, Puffy, nestled in her arms. She gave them a radiant smile.
“Lisa Vanderpump,” his friend said excitedly, standing up to shake her hand. “This is my buddy, Frank. He’s a bit of a sports legend in his own right.”
Frank stood awkwardly, not quite sure what to say. “Uh, hi. Nice place you got here.”
Lisa’s eyes sparkled with amusement. “Thank you, Frank. And you must be quite the legend if your friend here says so. Are you enjoying Los Angeles?”
“It’s...different,” Frank admitted. “Not quite New Jersey.”
“Oh, darling, I adore New Jersey!” Lisa said with a wink. “Such charm, and the people are so passionate. Tell me, do you have a favorite cocktail? I’d love to have my bartender whip something up for you.”
Frank shifted uncomfortably. “I’m more of a root beer kind of guy.”
Lisa laughed, a sound as light as champagne bubbles. “Root beer it is, then! But you must promise me you’ll try our Pumptini next time—it’s practically a rite of passage here.”
As the evening went on, Frank loosened up. Lisa returned a few times to check on them, and to his surprise, they got to talking. She asked him about his podcast, his love for sports, and even his infamous rants. Frank, in turn, learned about her journey from London to LA, her love for animals, and her knack for creating spaces where people felt at home.
“You know,” Lisa said thoughtfully, “you and I aren’t so different. We’re both passionate about what we do, and we both have a knack for connecting with people.”
Frank snorted. “Yeah, but you do it with class. I mostly just yell about the Mets.”
Lisa grinned. “Passion comes in many forms, Frank. And I can see you care deeply about what you love. That’s what matters.”
By the time they left Pump, Frank had to admit he’d had a good time. Lisa Vanderpump wasn’t just some reality star—she was sharp, kind, and genuine. As he shook her hand goodbye, she slipped him a card.
“Next time you’re in LA, come by Villa Rosa,” she said. “I think you’d love meeting my swans.”
Frank chuckled. “Thanks, Lisa. And if you’re ever in Jersey, I’ll show you a proper Mets game.”
“Deal,” she said with a wink.
As Frank walked out into the LA night, he couldn’t help but smile. He’d come for the Dodgers, but he was leavin
g with a story he’d be telling for years.
End of Line
Sic Semper Tyrannis
- Mar 20, 2009
- 29,882
- 7,661
Thought you were a Yankees fan?
John Price
pro gambler/drinker
- Sep 19, 2008
- 389,986
- 32,553
@PanthersPens62
Title: Real Housewives of Beverly Hills: "You Beast!"
INT. UPSCALE RESTAURANT - EVENING
(The ladies are seated at a long dining table. The tension is palpable. Wine glasses clink as a heated discussion is underway.)
EILEEN DAVIDSON
(calmly but firmly)
Kim, I just want to understand. You’ve been acting differently tonight. Is everything okay?
KIM RICHARDS
(glares at Eileen, defensive)
You know what? I’m not talking to you.
(The table goes quiet. The other Housewives exchange wide-eyed looks.)
EILEEN DAVIDSON
(confused but composed)
I wasn’t trying to upset you. I’m just asking a question.
KIM RICHARDS
(cutting her off, voice rising)
No, Eileen! You don’t get to talk to me like that. Not tonight!
(Eileen tilts her head, taken aback, but doesn’t respond right away.)
KYLE RICHARDS
(trying to mediate)
Kim, calm down. She’s just asking—
KIM RICHARDS
(snapping at Kyle)
Stay out of it, Kyle!
(Turns back to Eileen, pointing a finger dramatically.)
KIM RICHARDS
You beast.
(Gasps ripple around the table. Eileen’s jaw drops, stunned.)
EILEEN DAVIDSON
(leaning back, bewildered)
Excuse me?
LISA RINNA
(whispering to Lisa Vanderpump)
Did she just call her a beast?
LISA VANDERPUMP
(barely hiding a smirk)
Oh darling, it’s Kim. Anything can happen.
(Kim grabs her drink, takes a sip, and crosses her arms. Silence lingers before Erika breaks the tension.)
ERIKA GIRARDI
(deadpan)
Well, this dinner just got interesting.
(Cue dramatic music. Camera pans to Eileen, who looks both hurt and confused, then to Kim, who appears unapologetic.)
FADE OUT.
I support all local teams
Title: Real Housewives of Beverly Hills: "You Beast!"
INT. UPSCALE RESTAURANT - EVENING
(The ladies are seated at a long dining table. The tension is palpable. Wine glasses clink as a heated discussion is underway.)
EILEEN DAVIDSON
(calmly but firmly)
Kim, I just want to understand. You’ve been acting differently tonight. Is everything okay?
KIM RICHARDS
(glares at Eileen, defensive)
You know what? I’m not talking to you.
(The table goes quiet. The other Housewives exchange wide-eyed looks.)
EILEEN DAVIDSON
(confused but composed)
I wasn’t trying to upset you. I’m just asking a question.
KIM RICHARDS
(cutting her off, voice rising)
No, Eileen! You don’t get to talk to me like that. Not tonight!
(Eileen tilts her head, taken aback, but doesn’t respond right away.)
KYLE RICHARDS
(trying to mediate)
Kim, calm down. She’s just asking—
KIM RICHARDS
(snapping at Kyle)
Stay out of it, Kyle!
(Turns back to Eileen, pointing a finger dramatically.)
KIM RICHARDS
You beast.
(Gasps ripple around the table. Eileen’s jaw drops, stunned.)
EILEEN DAVIDSON
(leaning back, bewildered)
Excuse me?
LISA RINNA
(whispering to Lisa Vanderpump)
Did she just call her a beast?
LISA VANDERPUMP
(barely hiding a smirk)
Oh darling, it’s Kim. Anything can happen.
(Kim grabs her drink, takes a sip, and crosses her arms. Silence lingers before Erika breaks the tension.)
ERIKA GIRARDI
(deadpan)
Well, this dinner just got interesting.
(Cue dramatic music. Camera pans to Eileen, who looks both hurt and confused, then to Kim, who appears unapologetic.)
FADE OUT.
ive lived in DC all my life
I support all local teams
PanthersPens62
Paul & Stanley
And the Dodgers......and the Yankees (See "Babe Woof" as living proof
End of Line
Sic Semper Tyrannis
- Mar 20, 2009
- 29,882
- 7,661
Michigan, Va Tech, Nats, Yankees, Wizards, Lakers, Dodgers, Skins, Chiefs, who am I missing?
John Price
pro gambler/drinker
- Sep 19, 2008
- 389,986
- 32,553
Title: Plushie Night Adventures
Scene 1: Bedroom, Night
(The room is dimly lit, illuminated only by the moonlight streaming through the window. A variety of plushies are scattered across the bed and floor. The clock strikes midnight. A soft shimmer of magic spreads across the room.)
Pawlette the Rabbit (stretching her floppy ears):
Oh, finally! Midnight! I thought that kid would never fall asleep.
Babe Woof the Dog (wagging his stitched tail):
Yeah, I was starting to cramp up sitting in that same spot all day. It’s adventure time!
Munchlax (yawning and patting his round tummy):
Adventure? Can’t we just have a midnight snack instead?
Bidoof (with a goofy grin):
Why not both? We can explore and eat, right?
Sonic the Hedgehog (leaping off the shelf with a spin):
No time to waste, guys! Let’s get moving before sunrise!
Tails (hovering down with his spinning tails):
Where to tonight? Any ideas?
Pikachu (sparking slightly from his cheeks):
Pika pi! (points toward the closet) Maybe there’s something cool hidden in there!
Scene 1: Bedroom, Night
(The room is dimly lit, illuminated only by the moonlight streaming through the window. A variety of plushies are scattered across the bed and floor. The clock strikes midnight. A soft shimmer of magic spreads across the room.)
Pawlette the Rabbit (stretching her floppy ears):
Oh, finally! Midnight! I thought that kid would never fall asleep.
Babe Woof the Dog (wagging his stitched tail):
Yeah, I was starting to cramp up sitting in that same spot all day. It’s adventure time!
Munchlax (yawning and patting his round tummy):
Adventure? Can’t we just have a midnight snack instead?
Bidoof (with a goofy grin):
Why not both? We can explore and eat, right?
Sonic the Hedgehog (leaping off the shelf with a spin):
No time to waste, guys! Let’s get moving before sunrise!
Tails (hovering down with his spinning tails):
Where to tonight? Any ideas?
Pikachu (sparking slightly from his cheeks):
Pika pi! (points toward the closet) Maybe there’s something cool hidden in there!
not a dodgers or Chiefs fan
PanthersPens62
Paul & Stanley
John Price
pro gambler/drinker
- Sep 19, 2008
- 389,986
- 32,553
Scene 4: Encounter with Plushie Guardians
(As they wander deeper into the forest, they come across a group of regal-looking plushies guarding a giant treasure chest.)
Plushie Guardian Leader (sternly):
Who dares enter the Realm of Plush?
Pawlette (stepping forward politely):
We’re just visitors, exploring. We didn’t mean to intrude.
Plushie Guardian Leader:
Only those who prove their bravery and teamwork may pass.
(As they wander deeper into the forest, they come across a group of regal-looking plushies guarding a giant treasure chest.)
Plushie Guardian Leader (sternly):
Who dares enter the Realm of Plush?
Pawlette (stepping forward politely):
We’re just visitors, exploring. We didn’t mean to intrude.
Plushie Guardian Leader:
Only those who prove their bravery and teamwork may pass.
John Price
pro gambler/drinker
- Sep 19, 2008
- 389,986
- 32,553
good content
John Price
pro gambler/drinker
- Sep 19, 2008
- 389,986
- 32,553
John Price
pro gambler/drinker
- Sep 19, 2008
- 389,986
- 32,553
"Sheila."
en.wikipedia.org
Sheila Ford Hamp (née Sheila Firestone Ford; born October 31, 1951)[1] is an American businesswoman and football executive. A descendant of both the Ford and Firestone families, she is the principal owner and chairwoman of the Detroit Lions of the National Football League (NFL). Hamp graduated from Yale University in 1973, where she played varsity tennis,[2] and has an MA in teaching and early childhood education from Boston University.[1] She serves on the NFL's Super Bowl and Major Events Committee.[3] Hamp had served as vice chairwoman of the Lions since 2014, and succeeded her mother Martha Firestone Ford on June 23, 2020.[4][5]
Sheila Ford Hamp - Wikipedia
Sheila Ford Hamp (née Sheila Firestone Ford; born October 31, 1951)[1] is an American businesswoman and football executive. A descendant of both the Ford and Firestone families, she is the principal owner and chairwoman of the Detroit Lions of the National Football League (NFL). Hamp graduated from Yale University in 1973, where she played varsity tennis,[2] and has an MA in teaching and early childhood education from Boston University.[1] She serves on the NFL's Super Bowl and Major Events Committee.[3] Hamp had served as vice chairwoman of the Lions since 2014, and succeeded her mother Martha Firestone Ford on June 23, 2020.[4][5]
John Price
pro gambler/drinker
- Sep 19, 2008
- 389,986
- 32,553
End of Line
Sic Semper Tyrannis
- Mar 20, 2009
- 29,882
- 7,661
- Status
