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Useless Thread MCMXCIX: Miss Piggy Appreciation Thread | Page 25 | HFBoards - NHL Message Board and Forum for National Hockey League
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Useless Thread MCMXCIX: Miss Piggy Appreciation Thread

www.espn.com

Sources: Belichick, UNC get UConn transfer Yates

UConn defensive lineman Pryce Yates signed with North Carolina, sources told ESPN.
www.espn.com www.espn.com

was Bill the one jim mora jr threw under the bus for meddling !

Hours before Yates put his name back in the portal, UConn coach Jim Mora posted on X that he planned to "pursue all avenues" against teams that tamper with his players and recruit them off the Huskies' roster.

"A simple note to the schools and coaches that have blatantly broken @NCAAFootball rules by tampering with our players in the last 24 hours," Mora wrote on X. "We do know who you are, we will pursue all avenues to hold you accountable. We are excited that we've built a program where coaches have to cheat to beat us and we will protect that program. Think hard before you tamper with our players."
 
The Plushie War Begins

I thought the Winter Festival fiasco would be the breaking point for Brenda and John. Surely, after humiliating themselves in front of half the town, they’d give up their bizarre plushie crusade.

But I underestimated Brenda.

A week later, as I was enjoying my first peaceful evening in ages, there was a knock at my door. I considered ignoring it, but then I heard Brenda’s unmistakable voice.

“Sweetie, open up! We’ve got big news!”

I groaned and opened the door. Brenda stood there in a parka that looked like it had been made out of rejected plushies, while John clutched a clipboard covered in incomprehensible charts.

“We’re declaring war,” Brenda announced, barging inside without waiting for an invitation.

“War?” I asked, rubbing my temples. “On who?”

“On the haters!” John said, his voice muffled by the oversized scarf he’d wrapped around his face.

Brenda plopped onto my couch, sending a throw pillow flying. “After the festival, we realized there’s no point in trying to please everyone. Some people just don’t get plushies. So, we’re focusing on the people who do.”

“We’re starting a movement,” John added, handing me a flyer.

I glanced at it. At the top, in bold Comic Sans, were the words: “PLUSHIE POWER: JOIN THE REVOLUTION!”Beneath it was a cartoon drawing of a panda holding a protest sign that said, “NO MORE JUDGMENT!”

“This has to be a joke,” I said, tossing the flyer onto the coffee table.

“It’s not a joke,” Brenda said, leaning forward. “It’s a mission. We’re taking the Plushie Redemption Initiative to the next level. Protests, rallies, social media campaigns—we’re going all in.”

I stared at them, trying to process what I was hearing. “You’re protesting… what, exactly?”

“The stigma against plushies!” Brenda declared. “People like John shouldn’t have to feel ashamed of their hobbies.”

“And what about the part where you… you know…” I trailed off, glancing at John.

“Humped them?” he said matter-of-factly.

“Exactly!” Brenda cut in, ignoring the look of horror on my face. “That’s all in the past. We’re focusing on the future now. A future where plushie lovers can live without shame!”

I buried my face in my hands. “I want no part of this.”

“Oh, but you’ll want to hear about our first event,” Brenda said with a sly grin.

An hour later, I found myself roped into their latest scheme: a “Plushie Peace Rally” in the town square. Brenda had somehow convinced a dozen people to show up, most of whom seemed more interested in the free lasagna samples than the actual cause.

John, dressed in a plush panda costume, stood on a makeshift stage, delivering an impassioned speech.

“Plushies are more than toys,” he shouted into a microphone. “They’re friends! They’re family! And it’s time we treated them with the respect they deserve!”

The handful of spectators clapped politely, while a group of kids giggled and threw snowballs at him.

Brenda, undeterred, marched through the crowd with a tray of lasagna. “Have you tried the lasagna yet?” she asked a confused elderly man. “It’s the official food of the Plushie Revolution!”

Things took a turn when a group of teenagers showed up, clearly there to mock the event.

“What’s this?” one of them sneered, pointing at the banner that read, “PLUSHIES FOR PEACE.”

“It’s a movement,” Brenda said, hands on her hips. “And you’re welcome to join us.”

“Or not,” John muttered, pulling his panda hood tighter.

One of the teens picked up a plushie from the giveaway table and examined it. “Is this the kind of stuff you’re into?” he asked, smirking.

“Don’t you dare disrespect the plushies!” Brenda snapped.

Before anyone could stop him, the teen tossed the plushie into the snow. John let out a strangled cry and lunged toward him, panda suit and all.

What followed could only be described as a full-blown plushie brawl.

John tackled the teen, shouting something about “plushie pride,” while Brenda used her tray of lasagna as an improvised weapon, flinging noodles and sauce at anyone who got too close.

The other teens joined in, pelting John with snowballs, while the spectators watched in stunned silence.

I, of course, tried to stay out of it, but Brenda spotted me and yelled, “Sweetie, help us! This is your fight too!”

“It absolutely isn’t,” I muttered, edging toward the exit.

By the time the police arrived, John was rolling in the snow, still clinging to his panda hood, while Brenda was arguing with an officer about the legality of her lasagna tactics.

“This isn’t over!” she shouted as they escorted her to the patrol car. “The Plushie Revolution will rise again!”

I watched from a safe distance, shaking my head.

As ridiculous as the whole thing was, I couldn’t shake the feeling that this was just the beginning. Brenda and John weren’t the kind of people to back down, and if there was one thing they excelled at, it was dragging me into their chaos.

I sighed and turned to leave, already dreading whatever they’d come up with next.
 
But cocktails weren’t the only arena for his schemes. Behind the scenes, Sandoval had been meddling in the personal lives of his friends, sowing seeds of discord under the guise of “helping.” He'd convinced James Kennedy that Raquel was talking behind his back—a lie that led to a public screaming match at Ariana's birthday party. Meanwhile, Tom had been quietly pursuing a business deal with Schwartz’s rival brewery, betraying his best friend’s trust for a quick paycheck.

“Tom, how could you?” Schwartz confronted him, his eyes filled with a rare anger.

“It’s business, dude,” Tom replied, shrugging. “Don’t take it personally.”

But the worst of it all came to light during the season finale: The Raquel Revelation. For months, Sandoval had been secretly involved with Raquel, despite his long-term relationship with Ariana. The truth came out during a dinner party when Lala, ever the detective, found suspicious text messages on Tom’s phone.

“You’re disgusting,” Lala spat as Ariana sat in stunned silence.

Tom tried to talk his way out of it, claiming Raquel had simply been seeking “guidance” from him. But no one bought his excuses anymore.

The fallout was nuclear. Lisa put Tom on notice, telling him his partnership in TomTom was hanging by a thread. Ariana packed her bags and left the apartment they once shared. Even Schwartz, his ride-or-die, started to distance himself, unable to stomach the betrayals.

In the aftermath, Sandoval stood alone on the patio of SUR, sipping one of his “innovative” cocktails. The once-charismatic bartender now faced a reckoning.

But as the cameras rolled on his brooding figure, one thing was clear: Tom Sandoval wasn’t done yet.
 
The Springtime of Plushie Discontent

I thought I was free of Brenda and John after the Plushie Peace Rally fiasco. Winter had come and gone, and I hadn’t heard a peep from either of them since they’d been dragged off by the police, lasagna stains and all.

For a moment, I allowed myself to hope. The snow melted, flowers bloomed, and birds chirped. Spring was in the air, and life felt peaceful for the first time in months.

But peace never lasts where Brenda is concerned.

I was enjoying a quiet afternoon at the park, sitting on a bench with a book, when I heard the unmistakable sound of Brenda’s voice booming from across the field.

“Sweetie! There you are!”

I froze. Slowly, I turned my head to see Brenda and John marching toward me, their arms full of what appeared to be—God help me—plushie bouquets.

Brenda was dressed in a hideous floral jumpsuit that looked like it had been crafted from curtains stolen from a retirement home, while John sported a bright green T-shirt that read, “PLUSHIES BLOSSOM IN SPRING.”

“Surprised to see us?” Brenda asked, grinning like a fox who’d just found an unattended henhouse.

“Horrified, actually,” I muttered.

Brenda plopped onto the bench beside me, sending petals from one of her plushie bouquets flying into the breeze. “We’ve been busy,” she said, as if that explained anything.

John, ever the awkward sidekick, set a plushie rabbit on my lap. “It’s for you,” he said. “Part of our new line: Seasonal Plushies for All Occasions.”

I stared at the rabbit. Its beady eyes seemed to mock me.

“I don’t want this,” I said, handing it back to him.

“Nonsense!” Brenda said, shoving it back into my hands. “Everyone wants a plushie. Especially now that we’ve rebranded.”

“You’re still doing this?” I asked.

“Oh, we’re not just doing it,” Brenda said, puffing out her chest. “We’re thriving. The Plushie Revolution is entering its springtime era. We’ve got new merchandise, new slogans, and a new campaign!”

John nodded enthusiastically. “We call it Plushies in Bloom.”

Against my better judgment, I let them explain.

Their latest scheme involved setting up pop-up plushie stands in parks and other public spaces, targeting families enjoying the spring weather. Brenda had also developed a line of “inspirational gardening plushies,” which included items like a stuffed sunflower that said, “Grow through what you go through,” and a caterpillar with the message, “Transform your life!”

“It’s genius,” Brenda said, pulling out a clipboard covered in illegible notes. “People love spring. People love plushies. It’s a match made in heaven.”

“And don’t forget about the plushie yoga classes,” John added.

“Plushie yoga?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.

“It’s exactly what it sounds like,” Brenda said. “You do yoga with a plushie partner. It’s therapeutic.”

“It’s ridiculous,” I said.

Brenda waved me off. “You’re just stuck in your ways, sweetie. You need to embrace the new season. Speaking of which…”

She pulled a flyer from her bag and handed it to me. At the top, in glittery pastel letters, were the words: “SPRING INTO PLUSHIES: COMMUNITY FAIR & LASAGNA BAKE-OFF!”

“You’re joking,” I said, staring at the flyer.

“Not at all,” Brenda said. “It’s happening next weekend. And we want you to judge the lasagna contest.”

“I’m not getting involved in this,” I said, standing up.

Brenda grabbed my arm. “Sweetie, think about it. The community needs this. After the long, hard winter, people are craving comfort and connection. Plushies and lasagna can provide that!”

I shook her off. “No. Absolutely not. I’m done with you two and your ridiculous schemes.”

John looked crestfallen, clutching the plushie rabbit like it was his emotional support animal. “But… it’s spring,” he mumbled. “Everything’s supposed to be better in spring.”

As I walked away, I heard Brenda call after me, “You’ll change your mind! You always do!”

And she wasn’t wrong. By the time the weekend rolled around, I found myself at the community fair, unable to resist the morbid curiosity of seeing what chaos Brenda and John had unleashed this time.

Their booth was a pastel nightmare, covered in fake flowers, plushies, and trays of lasagna. A crowd had gathered, not because they were interested in the plushies, but because Brenda was loudly berating a man for not appreciating her “spring lasagna.”

“It’s got fresh basil!” she shouted. “Do you even know how hard it is to grow basil in this climate?”

The man muttered something about being lactose intolerant and walked away, shaking his head.

As the day went on, it became clear that Brenda’s latest scheme was a disaster. Kids weren’t interested in the gardening plushies, parents were annoyed by her pushiness, and the lasagna bake-off had devolved into a shouting match between Brenda and a retired chef who accused her of using store-bought noodles.

But the final straw came when John, in an attempt to “boost morale,” decided to lead a plushie yoga session in the middle of the fair.

Wearing a headband and leggings that did not flatter his figure, he stood in front of a dozen confused onlookers, clutching a stuffed butterfly.

“Now, everyone take a deep breath,” he said, striking a clumsy tree pose. “Feel the plushie’s energy flowing through you.”

A little boy pointed and laughed. “Why is the butterfly guy so sweaty?”

John turned bright red and stumbled out of the pose, sending the butterfly flying into a nearby lasagna tray.

As chaos erupted once again, I decided I’d had enough. I slipped away from the fair, determined to finally cut all ties with Brenda and John.

But as I walked home, I couldn’t help but wonder what absurdity they’d come up with next. Because if there was one thing I’d learned, it was that Brenda and John were like weeds: no matter how many times you tried to get rid of them, they always came back.
 
Plushies Ahoy: The Yacht Club Debacle

Spring had finally turned into summer, and I hadn’t heard from Brenda or John in weeks. I dared to hope they’d finally given up their plushie crusade. Maybe they’d moved on to a less deranged hobby, like knitting sweaters for squirrels or competitive scrapbooking.

But, of course, I was wrong.

One Saturday morning, as I was lounging on my porch with a cup of coffee, a sleek white van pulled up in front of my house. The side of the van was plastered with a giant decal of a cartoon dolphin holding a plushie, along with the words: “PLUSHIES AT SEA: CHARTING A NEW COURSE!”

Before I could flee, Brenda and John emerged from the van, both dressed in ridiculous nautical attire. Brenda wore a captain’s hat and a striped blazer that barely fit over her floral blouse, while John sported a Hawaiian shirt with a pattern of stuffed animals riding surfboards.

“Anchors aweigh, sweetie!” Brenda called, waving cheerfully.

I groaned. “What is it now?”

“We bought a yacht!” Brenda announced as she marched up to my porch.

“You what?”

“A yacht!” she repeated, as if it were the most normal thing in the world. “Well, technically it’s more of a large boat, but ‘yacht’ has a better ring to it. We’re calling her The Plushie Queen.”

John, dragging a large duffel bag that looked suspiciously lumpy, added, “We’re taking plushies to the next level: luxury nautical adventures.”

I rubbed my temples. “Please tell me this is a joke.”

“It’s no joke,” Brenda said, handing me a flyer. It featured a poorly photoshopped image of The Plushie Queen surrounded by cartoon dolphins, starfish, and—you guessed it—plushies. Beneath the image, in Comic Sans, were the words: “THE PLUSHIE QUEEN: JOIN THE FLEET OF JOY!”

Against my better judgment, I agreed to check out the yacht. Brenda insisted I join them for their first “exclusive plushie event,” which, according to her, would solidify their membership in the local yacht club.

When we arrived at the marina, I immediately understood why she’d been so vague about the yacht’s condition.

The Plushie Queen was a rusting, mismatched monstrosity that looked like it had been cobbled together from spare parts found at a junkyard. The hull was painted a blinding shade of neon pink, and the deck was covered in what appeared to be astroturf. A tattered banner hung from the bow, reading: “WELCOME ABOARD!”

“This is a disaster,” I said, staring at the boat in disbelief.

“She’s got character,” Brenda said defensively.

“She’s got mold,” I replied.

Brenda and John quickly got to work setting up for the event. John hauled plushies of all shapes and sizes onto the deck, arranging them in awkward groupings and occasionally stopping to cuddle one. Brenda, meanwhile, hung streamers and set up a buffet table that featured her signature lasagna.

As guests began to arrive—mostly confused families lured in by the promise of free food—John decided to take charge of the entertainment.

“Ladies and gentlemen!” he announced, stepping onto the deck with a stuffed parrot perched on his shoulder. “Prepare to witness the Plushie Parade of the Seas!”

He pressed a button on a remote control, and a series of plushies attached to tiny motorized boats began circling the yacht. The crowd, to my surprise, seemed mildly amused.

But then disaster struck.

One of the motorized boats malfunctioned, spinning wildly and launching a plushie dolphin into the air. It hit John square in the face, knocking him backward into a tray of lasagna.

The crowd gasped as John flailed, slipping on the spilled lasagna and crashing into the buffet table. Plates and trays went flying, and a particularly ambitious seagull swooped down to snatch a piece of garlic bread from his chest.

Brenda rushed to his side, her captain’s hat askew. “Sweetie, are you okay?”

John groaned, pulling a noodle off his face. “I think I hurt my pride.”

“And the lasagna!” Brenda wailed, surveying the carnage.

As if the situation couldn’t get worse, a group of actual yacht club members arrived, drawn by the commotion. They were impeccably dressed in crisp white outfits, their disdain palpable as they surveyed the chaotic scene.

One of them, a stern-looking man with a clipboard, approached Brenda. “Is this… your vessel?” he asked, his tone dripping with condescension.

“It sure is!” Brenda said, straightening her blazer. “The Plushie Queen. She’s one of a kind.”

The man raised an eyebrow. “I see.” He glanced at John, who was still sprawled on the deck, clutching a plushie shark. “And… what exactly is the purpose of this event?”

“To spread the joy of plushies!” Brenda declared. “And to apply for yacht club membership, of course.”

The man blinked, as if he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “I… don’t think you’re quite what we’re looking for.”

The yacht club members left shortly after, leaving Brenda fuming.

“They’re just jealous of our creativity,” she muttered, stomping around the deck.

John, now covered in lasagna sauce and seagull feathers, looked up from where he was sulking. “Do you think they’ll let us join if we paint the boat white?”

“No, sweetie,” Brenda said, patting his shoulder. “But don’t worry. The Plushie Revolution doesn’t need their approval.”

As they began brainstorming their next scheme—something involving “plushie pirate adventures”—I slipped away, determined to avoid whatever disaster they’d unleash next.

But deep down, I knew it was only a matter of time before Brenda and John dragged me back into their plushie madness.
 
Title: "The Stuffed Safari"

FADE IN:

INT. CHILD'S BEDROOM - DAY

A sunbeam illuminates a cozy child's bedroom. On the bed sit five stuffed animals: PIKACHU, a cheerful yellow creature; PAWLETTE, a spunky rabbit with floppy ears; TAILS, a fox with two tails; SONIC, a confident blue hedgehog; and MUNCHLAX, a pudgy bear-like creature.

The room is quiet until the sound of a distant CRASH is heard outside.

PIKACHU(excited) Pikachu! Pikachu!

PAWLETTE(curious) Pawlette?

TAILS(worried) Tails! Tails!

SONIC(determined) Sonic.

MUNCHLAX(nonchalant) Munchlax...

The animals look at each other and nod. They tumble off the bed and land on the floor with a soft THUMP. They begin to move toward the source of the noise.

EXT. BACKYARD - DAY

The stuffed animals emerge into the backyard, a world that seems enormous from their perspective. The crash came from a toppled bird feeder, spilling seeds everywhere. A group of squirrels chatter angrily nearby.

PIKACHU(pointing at the feeder) Pikachu!

PAWLETTE(hopping closer to investigate) Pawlette, Pawlette.

TAILS(gesturing at the squirrels) Tails! Tails!

The squirrels chatter louder, glaring at the group. One of them holds a shiny, golden button—the stuffed animals' "magic button," which gives them life at night.

SONIC(clenching fists) Sonic!

MUNCHLAX(pointing at the button lazily) Munchlax.

The squirrels dart away with the button. The stuffed animals exchange determined looks and set off in pursuit.

MONTAGE - CHASE THROUGH THE YARD

PIKACHU uses a jump rope as a lasso to swing across a small pond.

PAWLETTE leaps over tall grass like an acrobat.

TAILS spins his two tails to propel himself across a gap.

SONIC zips ahead, creating a small breeze.

MUNCHLAX waddles along, stopping occasionally to snack on dropped birdseed.

EXT. TREEHOUSE - DAY

The squirrels climb up into an old treehouse, the golden button clutched in their tiny paws. The stuffed animals huddle at the base of the tree, looking up.

PIKACHU(nodding) Pikachu!

PAWLETTE(determined) Pawlette.

TAILS(thinking) Tails… Tails!

SONIC(confident) Sonic.

MUNCHLAX(yawning) Munchlax.

The team gets to work. TAILS gathers sticks and vines to build a ladder. PAWLETTE and SONIC keep the squirrels distracted by hopping and spinning below. PIKACHU cheers them on while MUNCHLAX ties the final knots.

INT. TREEHOUSE - DAY

The animals climb into the treehouse. The squirrels scurry to a corner, clutching the button. The two groups face off.

PIKACHU(pleading) Pikachu… Pikachu.

PAWLETTE(nodding) Pawlette.

The squirrels hesitate, sensing no malice. One brave squirrel steps forward and offers the button back. MUNCHLAX takes it and gives the squirrel a leftover snack in return.

TAILS(relieved) Tails!

SONIC(grinning) Sonic.

MUNCHLAX(happy) Munchlax!

The animals and squirrels share a moment of camaraderie. The golden button glows brightly in PIKACHU's hands, signaling the return of balance.

EXT. BACKYARD - SUNSET

The stuffed animals wave goodbye to the squirrels and head back to the house. The sun sets, casting a warm glow over the yard.

INT. CHILD'S BEDROOM - NIGHT

The animals climb back onto the bed, placing the golden button in its rightful spot. They settle in just as the child enters the room, unaware of their adventure.

CHILD(yawning) Goodnight, everyone.

The child turns off
the light. The stuffed animals exchange knowing glances before going still.

FADE OUT.

THE END
 
200.webp
 
Tom Sandoval and James Kennedy stood on opposite sides of the dimly lit lounge at SUR, the tension between them palpable. The room buzzed with chatter from patrons, but the icy glares exchanged by the two men turned the air electric. At the heart of their feud was Ariana Madix, Tom’s long-time partner and a close confidante of James.

It had started innocently enough. Ariana and James had been collaborating on a new mix for one of his DJ sets. Their creative chemistry had always been strong, but lately, James found himself looking at Ariana differently. She was intelligent, witty, and unwaveringly supportive—qualities he now appreciated more than ever. For James, admiration began to blur with something deeper, something dangerous.

Tom, always attuned to the dynamics of his friend group, noticed James’s subtle shifts. The lingering looks, the excuses to text Ariana at odd hours—it didn’t take much to connect the dots. At first, Tom brushed it off, telling himself that James was just being his over-the-top self. But when he overheard James call Ariana “the most inspiring person I’ve ever met” during a group dinner, the simmering jealousy boiled over.


---

That night at SUR, the powder keg finally ignited. James was behind the DJ booth, spinning his usual beats, when Tom approached, his jaw set and his drink clutched tightly in one hand.

“James, we need to talk,” Tom said, his voice low but menacing.

James looked up, a smirk playing on his lips. “What’s the problem now, mate? Did I not play enough Tom Sandoval and the Most Extras for your liking?”

Tom’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t play dumb with me. I see the way you act around Ariana. Back off, or we’re going to have a serious problem.”

James laughed, a sharp, mocking sound that cut through the music. “Oh, please. You’ve had years with her, and what have you done? Half the time, you’re more interested in your band than her. Maybe she deserves someone who actually prioritizes her.”

The words hit Tom like a slap, and without thinking, he shoved James back. Glasses clinked as nearby patrons turned to watch the drama unfold.

“You don’t get to talk about my relationship,” Tom growled.

James recovered quickly, stepping forward to close the space between them. “Maybe I wouldn’t have to if you were half the man she deserves!”

The tension erupted into a full-blown scuffle. Tom lunged, aiming a poorly thought-out punch, but James dodged, retaliating with a shove that sent Tom stumbling into a table. Chaos erupted as onlookers scrambled to get out of the way, and Lisa Vanderpump’s voice cut through the din.

“Enough!” she shouted, her presence commanding as always. “This is not the UFC, it’s SUR! Both of you, outside—now.”


---

Minutes later, the two men stood in the alley, bruised egos more prominent than physical injuries. Ariana, who had been called to the scene by a frantic Scheana, appeared, her face a mix of confusion and anger.

“What the hell is going on?” she demanded, crossing her arms.

Tom gestured toward James. “Ask him! He’s the one who can’t seem to respect boundaries.”

James threw up his hands. “Oh, come off it, Sandoval. Maybe if you spent more time actually being there for her, I wouldn’t even be a threat.”

Ariana’s eyes widened. “A threat? Are you serious right now? I’m not some prize to be fought over!”

The men fell silent, realizing how ridiculous they looked. Ariana shook her head. “You two need to get over yourselves. Whatever issues you have, leave me out of it.”

She turned on her heel and walked away, leaving Tom and James standing awkwardly in the alley. For a moment, neither spoke, the weight of Ariana’s words settling heavily between them.

Finally, James broke the silence. “For what it’s worth, mate, I didn’t mean to cause all this. I just...she’s amazing, you know?”

Tom sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Yeah, she is. And maybe I need to do a better job of showing her that.”

The two men exchanged a tentative nod, the tension between them easing, if only slightly. As they re-entered SUR, bruised and humbled, they knew the night would be one to remember—but for all the wrong reasons.
 
Why is there a big black box on the right of my screen with information like latest posts? Is there a way to remove them? It's bad formatting practice.

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