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Useless Thread MCMXCIX: Miss Piggy Appreciation Thread

Stuffed and Unraveled

After the disastrous yacht party, it was clear to everyone—even Brenda—that John’s relationship with plushies had spiraled out of control. While Brenda tried to maintain her usual bravado, muttering about how “people just don’t understand the creative power of plushies,” she eventually admitted that John might need help.

One morning, as I was about to head out for a jog, Brenda showed up at my doorstep, looking uncharacteristically subdued.

“Sweetie,” she said, clutching a tissue and dabbing at her eyes, “I think my John needs… professional support.”

I blinked. “You think?”

She ignored my tone and barreled ahead. “I’ve already found a place. It’s called the Sunshine Meadows Behavioral Retreat. They specialize in unconventional addictions.”

“Unconventional?” I repeated.

“Yes! They’ve treated people addicted to breadsticks, people who talk exclusively in pirate slang, and even a man who couldn’t stop pretending to be a werewolf.”

“That… sounds oddly specific.”

Brenda sniffled. “I just want my sweet boy to get better. Will you come with me? For emotional support?”

The drive to Sunshine Meadows was awkward, to say the least. John sat in the back seat, sulking and hugging a small plush turtle. Brenda kept glancing at him in the rearview mirror, her knuckles tight on the steering wheel.

“Sweetie,” she said after a long silence, “you’re doing the right thing.”

John grumbled, “You’re only making me go because of the yacht club thing.”

“That’s not true!” Brenda protested. Then, after a pause: “Well, it’s not entirely true. But I do want you to be happy.”

John glared out the window. “I am happy. The plushies understand me in a way no one else does.”

I decided to stay out of it.

Sunshine Meadows looked like a cross between a summer camp and a luxury spa. The grounds were dotted with cheerful cabins, and a large sign at the entrance read: “SUNSHINE MEADOWS: FINDING YOUR BRIGHTER TOMORROW.”

A perky receptionist greeted us as we walked in. “Welcome! Are you here for our Let It Go inpatient program?”

“Yes,” Brenda said, her voice quivering. “My son has… an attachment issue.”

The receptionist smiled brightly. “No judgment here! We’ve seen it all. Let me just get some paperwork for you to fill out.”

John’s intake session was surprisingly smooth. The therapist, a middle-aged woman named Dr. Fletcher, seemed unphased as John described his “special bond” with plushies.

“They’re soft,” he explained earnestly. “And comforting. And sometimes… I can’t help myself.”

Dr. Fletcher nodded, jotting down notes. “And how does that make you feel afterward?”

John hesitated. “Kind of… ashamed. But also kind of… satisfied?”

Brenda, sitting next to him, buried her face in her hands.

After John was officially admitted, Brenda and I were given a brief tour of the facility.

“We focus on mindfulness, healthy habits, and creative expression,” Dr. Fletcher explained as she showed us a communal art room filled with paints, clay, and—much to Brenda’s horror—a bin of stuffed animals.

“Why do you have those?” Brenda asked, pointing at the plushies like they were cursed objects.

“Some patients find it helpful to confront their triggers in a controlled environment,” Dr. Fletcher said. “We call it exposure therapy.”

Brenda muttered something about “tempting fate” but didn’t press the issue.

Over the next few weeks, I received periodic updates from Brenda about John’s progress.

“He’s learning to knit!” she told me excitedly one day. “And he’s joined a support group for people with unhealthy attachments to inanimate objects. Can you believe there’s a guy there who’s in love with his toaster?”

“That’s… something,” I said, trying to sound supportive.

“And he’s writing a letter to each of his plushies, apologizing for using them inappropriately.”

“That’s… progress?”

Brenda beamed. “My sweet boy is healing!”

But, of course, things weren’t that simple.

One afternoon, I got a frantic call from Brenda.

“It’s John!” she wailed. “He had a relapse!”

“What happened?”

“They caught him sneaking into the art room at night. He was… intimate with a stuffed rabbit!”

“Oh no.”

“And now they’re threatening to kick him out! Sweetie, you have to help me talk to Dr. Fletcher.”

“Why me?”

“Because you’re good at sounding reasonable! Please, sweetie. For John.”

Against my better judgment, I agreed to go.

Dr. Fletcher greeted us in her office, looking tired but patient.

“Mrs. Price,” she said, “while we want to support John’s recovery, we also need to maintain a safe and respectful environment for all our patients.”

“I understand,” Brenda said, dabbing her eyes with a tissue. “But he’s just a sensitive soul! He didn’t mean any harm!”

Dr. Fletcher sighed. “This isn’t just about the rabbit incident. John has been disruptive in group sessions, insisting that plushies have ‘spiritual energy’ and accusing other patients of ‘mistreating’ their objects of attachment.”

Brenda gasped. “That’s slander!”

I decided to step in. “Maybe there’s a way to give John another chance? He’s obviously struggling, but he’s here because he wants to get better.”

Dr. Fletcher studied me for a moment, then nodded. “We’ll give him one more chance. But he’ll need to agree to stricter boundaries and more intensive therapy.”

When we told John the news, he looked both relieved and annoyed.

“I don’t need stricter boundaries,” he grumbled. “I need people to stop judging me.”

Brenda hugged him tightly. “Don’t worry, sweetie. Mommy’s here for you.”

As I watched them, I couldn’t help but wonder if John would ever truly change—or if the plushies would always hold a special, troubling place in his heart.

One thing was certain: life with Brenda and John was never boring.
 
Sir Purr is the mascot of the Carolina Panthers of the National Football League. He is an anthropomorphized panther wearing a Panthers football jersey, No.00. The character was introduced in 1995. On his page at the Panthers' web site, he describes his favorites snacks as "birds like falcons and eagles and seahawks."
 
Tom Sandoval sat in his sleek, modern kitchen, the faint aroma of freshly brewed coffee lingering in the air. It was an unusually quiet afternoon for the Vanderpump Rules star, who had taken a break from the bustling restaurant scene to focus on some behind-the-scenes operations for TomTom, the bar he co-owned. Today, however, he wasn’t troubleshooting cocktail recipes or brainstorming new decor concepts—he was logging into the bar’s network remotely to review financials and inventory systems.

Armed with his laptop and a glass of oat milk matcha, Tom leaned back into his ergonomic chair and tapped into the bar’s cloud-based POS system. As the system loaded, something odd caught his eye. A string of unfamiliar IP addresses appeared in the network logs, and the activity timestamps didn’t align with the hours TomTom was open.

“Hmm,” he muttered, furrowing his brow. He might not have been a tech genius, but years of obsessing over the details of his bar made him attentive to anomalies. He pulled up the activity log and saw it: large data packets being transmitted to an external server. His heart rate quickened as he realized that someone—or something—was siphoning data from the bar's network.

"Hey, Ariana!" he called to his partner, Ariana Madix, who was lounging on the couch reading a book. "Does this look suspicious to you?"

Ariana walked over, peering at the screen. "I don’t know what I’m looking at, but yeah, that definitely looks weird. Should we call someone?"

“Not yet,” Tom said, rubbing his chin. “Let me dig into this first. I want to see if I can figure it out myself.”

Over the next two hours, Tom immersed himself in a crash course on network security, pulling up YouTube tutorials and tech forums for guidance. As he sifted through the logs, he uncovered a vulnerability in the system—a poorly configured firewall that had left the network exposed to intrusions. Worse, it appeared that someone had exploited this weakness to access sensitive customer data, including credit card information.

Feeling a mix of anger and determination, Tom decided it was time to act. He reached out to his tech-savvy friend, Max, who handled IT for the bar. After a quick video call, Max confirmed Tom’s suspicions: the network had been compromised, and immediate action was required to prevent further damage.

“Okay, here’s what we’re going to do,” Max said. “We need to patch that firewall and lock everything down. But first, you need to cut off the hacker’s access.”

Tom nodded, feeling like he was in an action movie. Following Max’s instructions, he initiated a system-wide shutdown and reset the access protocols. As he worked, his mind raced. How had he missed this? Was this happening to other small businesses?

By the time they finished securing the system, the sun had set, and the kitchen was bathed in a warm, amber glow. Exhausted but relieved, Tom leaned back in his chair.

“Crisis averted,” Max said through the laptop speakers. “You actually did pretty good, man. You might have a future in tech.”

Tom laughed. “I think I’ll stick to cocktails, but thanks for walking me through this. I owe you a drink—on the house.”

As he shut down his laptop for the night, Tom couldn’t help but feel a sense of accomplishment. Sure, he wasn’t a cybersecurity expert, but he’d uncovered a problem, taken action, and protected his business.

Later that night, while sharing a celebratory glass of wine with Ariana, Tom joked, “Who knew I had a knack for hacking the hackers? Maybe I should pitch a Vanderpump Rules spinoff: Cyber Security and Cocktails.”

Ariana rolled her eyes but smiled. “Just as long as you don’t start wearing a cape. One hero in the house is enough.”

And with that, the couple toasted to another day of unexpected adventures in the ever
-chaotic world of Tom Sandoval.
 
The Great Plushie Heist

John Price emerged from Sunshine Meadows a changed man—or so we thought. After three months of inpatient therapy, he seemed calmer, more introspective, and oddly obsessed with journaling. Brenda was over the moon about his “recovery,” throwing a welcome-home lasagna party and inviting all the neighbors.

But behind John’s seemingly improved demeanor lurked a storm of resentment. He didn’t see his time at Sunshine Meadows as healing; he saw it as punishment. And in his mind, there was only one way to balance the scales: revenge.

It started small.

One afternoon, Brenda called me in a panic.

“Sweetie!” she shrieked. “Someone’s stolen Mr. Snuggles!”

“Who’s Mr. Snuggles?”

“My stuffed sloth! He’s been with me since the 80s!”

I sighed. “Are you sure you didn’t misplace it?”

“I’m not senile!” she snapped. “It’s gone! And I know who took it.”

“Let me guess: John?”

Brenda lowered her voice. “I don’t want to accuse my baby, but… he has been acting strange.”

“Strange how?”

“Well, I found a receipt for a bolt cutter in his room. And he’s been leaving the house at odd hours.”

“Brenda,” I said, pinching the bridge of my nose, “are you telling me John might be breaking into places to steal plushies?”

Brenda gasped. “I didn’t say that! But… maybe.”

The truth came out a week later when local news ran a story about a rash of bizarre thefts.

“Police are investigating a series of break-ins at toy stores and carnival game booths,” the reporter said. “The thief appears to target stuffed animals exclusively, leaving behind a trail of chaos and confusion.”

Brenda called me immediately. “Sweetie, I think it’s John.”

“I know it’s John,” I replied.

“What should we do?”

“Talk to him. Immediately.”

When we confronted John, he didn’t even try to deny it.

“They deserve it,” he said, his arms crossed defiantly.

“Deserve what?” Brenda asked, horrified.

“Retribution!” John exclaimed, pacing back and forth. “Those stuffed animals were abandoned, neglected, sold off like commodities. They need a savior!”

I stared at him, dumbfounded. “You’re stealing plushies because you think you’re… rescuing them?”

“It’s not stealing!” John snapped. “It’s liberation!”

Brenda looked like she was about to faint. “Sweetie, this is not what we talked about in therapy.”

John waved her off. “Therapy was a scam. They tried to brainwash me into thinking my love for plushies was wrong. But I know the truth: the plushies need me.”

Things escalated quickly.

John began referring to himself as “The Plushie Avenger” and wore a black ski mask during his nightly escapades. He’d sneak out after dark and return hours later with bags full of stolen stuffed animals.

Brenda tried to reason with him, but her pleas fell on deaf ears.

“Sweetie, this is illegal!” she said one night as John lugged a garbage bag into the house.

“Laws are made by people who don’t understand plushie culture,” John replied, dumping the contents onto the living room floor. A cascade of teddy bears, unicorns, and pandas spilled out.

Brenda wrung her hands. “But what if you get caught?”

“I won’t,” John said confidently. “I’m too good.”

Despite his assurances, John wasn’t as stealthy as he thought.

One night, while breaking into a Build-A-Bear workshop, he tripped an alarm. The police arrived within minutes, catching him red-handed with a plush koala in one hand and a bag of stuffing in the other.

Brenda and I bailed him out the next morning.

“I told you this would happen,” Brenda scolded as we drove home.

John, sulking in the back seat, muttered, “They’ll never understand my mission.”

Back at the house, things took an even darker turn.

John, now under house arrest, decided to turn the garage into what he called “The Sanctuary.” He lined the walls with shelves and filled them with his stolen plushies. Each one was tagged with a name and “adoption story” that he’d made up.

Brenda tried to intervene, but John was unstoppable.

“Sweetie,” she said one day, “this has to stop. It’s not healthy.”

John glared at her. “You don’t get it, Mom. The plushies need me.”

“No, sweetie,” Brenda said gently. “You need help.”

As the weeks went by, John’s obsession grew. He started planning “missions” to expand The Sanctuary, sketching blueprints for potential heists and even building a prototype grappling hook out of an old vacuum cleaner.

Meanwhile, Brenda and I debated what to do.

“We can’t let this go on,” I said during one of our many strategy meetings.

“But he’s my baby,” Brenda said, tears streaming down her face.

“Your baby is one bad decision away from being on America’s Dumbest Criminals.”

Brenda sighed. “I just want him to be happy.”

In the end, it was a neighbor who tipped off the authorities. Apparently, the sight of John climbing out of a window with an armful of stuffed animals was too much for her to ignore.

The police raided The Sanctuary, confiscating hundreds of plushies and leaving John devastated.

As they led him away in handcuffs, he shouted, “You’ll never break the bond between me and the plushies! NEVER!”

Brenda watched from the porch, sobbing into her tissue.

“I’m so sorry, sweetie,” she whispered.

I put a hand on her shoulder. “Maybe this is for the best. At least now he’ll get the help he needs.”

Brenda nodded, though her tears didn’t stop.

And as the police car disappeared down the street, I couldn’t help but think that this was just another chapter in the bizarre saga of Brenda, John, and the plushies.
 
Lisa Vanderpump sat in her opulent home office, surrounded by fresh roses and the faint scent of her signature candles. The glitz and glamour of Vanderpump Rules were far removed from her current task. Today, the queen of elegance had swapped her clipboard and sparkling gowns for a laptop and a terminal window.

TomTom, her beloved bar, had recently experienced a series of network hiccups, and Lisa wasn’t one to sit idly by while her empire faced potential risks. Despite owning several restaurants and bars, Lisa had a surprisingly hands-on approach, and when her IT team mentioned the possibility of port scanning to identify vulnerabilities, she decided to take matters into her own perfectly manicured hands.

She had overheard the term “Nmap” during a meeting with the tech consultants. Naturally curious, she decided to investigate.

“Alright,” she murmured, brushing a stray strand of hair from her face as she leaned toward the screen. Her laptop hummed softly, a stark contrast to the buzzing activity of her restaurants. “Let’s see what all the fuss is about.”

After a quick Google search, Lisa installed Nmap, the powerful network scanning tool. She pulled up the command line interface, a sight that felt both intimidating and thrilling. The flashing cursor seemed to challenge her.

“Darling, if I can run a restaurant empire, I can certainly handle this,” she said to herself with a wry smile.

With her IT consultant’s notes in hand, she typed her first command:

nmap -p 1-1000 -T4 192.168.1.1

The terminal exploded with activity, lines of text scrolling down as Nmap scanned the specified range of ports on her bar’s network. Lisa watched with fascination as open ports were identified.

“Open ports… 22, 80, 443,” she read aloud. “Ah, SSH, HTTP, and HTTPS. At least I know what those mean!”

She jotted down notes, consulting the IT team’s list of best practices. One port caught her eye—an unexpected service running on port 8080.

“What are you doing here?” she mused, narrowing her eyes at the screen. “You weren’t on the list.”

Lisa dug deeper, using additional Nmap flags to gather more information about the service running on the port:

nmap -sV -p 8080 192.168.1.1

The results revealed an outdated web server application that had somehow been left running on the network. Realizing this could be a potential vulnerability, she immediately reached out to her IT team.

“Hello, James,” she said over the phone, her tone calm but authoritative. “I’ve just scanned the network, and I found an old service running on port 8080. I need it shut down or secured immediately. We can’t have any loose ends, darling.”

James, momentarily stunned that Lisa Vanderpump had just used the term “port 8080,” quickly assured her he’d handle it.

As the team worked to secure the network, Lisa couldn’t help but feel a sense of pride. She had stepped out of her comfort zone and directly contributed to protecting her business.

Later, as she sipped a glass of rosé on her patio, Lisa reflected on the day. “Perhaps there’s more to this technology business than I thought,” she mused, a playful smirk crossing her face. “Who needs a white hat hacker when you’ve got a pink hat queen?”

And with that, Lisa Vanderpump proved once again that there was no challenge she couldn’t tackle—whether it was running a restaurant
empire or mastering the art of Nmap.
 
The Los Angeles Chargers are set to face the Houston Texans in an AFC Wild Card matchup at NRG Stadium in Houston on Saturday, January 11, 2025, at 4:30 p.m. ET.



The Chargers are favored by 2.5 to 3 points, with moneyline odds around -155, indicating a 61.8% implied probability of winning.

Analysts highlight the Texans' struggles against playoff-caliber teams and offensive line issues affecting quarterback C.J. Stroud. In contrast, the Chargers boast a strong running game and have been performing well recently.

Given these factors, the Chargers are considered to have the advantage in this m
atchup.
 
The Plushie Trial of the Century

The trial of John Price, better known in the tabloids as "The Plushie Bandit," became the talk of the town. Brenda, ever the devoted mother, was determined to prove her son’s innocence—or at least paint his actions as the misunderstood work of a sensitive soul.

That’s when she made what would become a very regrettable decision.

“I’ve hired the best defense attorney money can buy!” Brenda declared during one of our kitchen-table strategy sessions, slamming a business card down in front of me.

I picked it up and squinted at the gaudy gold lettering. “Perry Mason?”

“Yes!” Brenda said, practically glowing with pride. “He’s a legal legend! He’ll wipe the floor with the prosecution.”

“Brenda,” I said carefully, “you know Perry Mason is a fictional character, right?”

She waved me off. “This guy’s real. He even told me he gets mistaken for the TV Perry Mason all the time!”

When Perry Mason (real name: Jerry Mason) showed up to their first meeting, my worst fears were confirmed. He wore a cheap, ill-fitting suit and had a toupee so obvious it looked like it might slide off if someone sneezed near him. He arrived 15 minutes late, chewing gum, and carrying a briefcase that appeared to be held together with duct tape.

“Mrs. Price,” he said, flashing a greasy grin as he sat down, “don’t you worry. I’ve never lost a case.”

“Really?” Brenda asked, her face lighting up.

“Well, technically I’ve never had a case go to trial,” he admitted. “But I’ve settled plenty!”

I groaned inwardly.

The trial began two weeks later. John, dressed in a too-small suit that made him look like a stuffed sausage, sat nervously at the defense table. Beside him, Jerry Mason looked thoroughly unprepared, flipping through a legal pad that seemed to have more doodles than notes.

The prosecution wasted no time laying out their case. They presented security footage of John breaking into a Build-A-Bear workshop, photographs of The Sanctuary with its shelves of stolen plushies, and even a bag of evidence containing bolt cutters and ski masks found in his room.

The pièce de résistance was John’s own notebook, which detailed his “missions” and included a list of target locations, complete with notes like, “High-value pandas here—priority!”

When the prosecution rested their case, Brenda leaned over and whispered to me, “It’s okay. Perry will turn this around.”

I didn’t have the heart to tell her otherwise.

Jerry Mason’s defense strategy was… unique.

“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury,” he began, pacing in front of them, “who among us hasn’t felt a deep, unshakable connection to something soft and cuddly?”

The jurors exchanged bewildered glances.

Jerry continued, “My client, Mr. John Price, is not a criminal. He’s a man with a passion. A man with a dream. A man who—if we’re being honest—has probably brought more joy to those plushies than any of us ever could.”

The prosecutor raised an eyebrow. “Objection, Your Honor. Relevance?”

“Sustained,” the judge said, rubbing his temples.

Things went downhill from there.

Jerry called Brenda as a character witness, which was a mistake.

“Mrs. Price,” he asked, “can you tell the court about your son’s character?”

“Oh, he’s a wonderful boy,” Brenda said tearfully. “So sweet and sensitive. He even calls me every morning to let me know if he’s going to pinch out a log.”

The courtroom fell into stunned silence.

“Excuse me?” the judge asked, clearly regretting his career choices.

“It’s our little tradition,” Brenda explained, oblivious to the horrified stares. “We like to keep each other updated.”

When the jury returned with a guilty verdict, Brenda was inconsolable.

“This is an outrage!” she cried as John was led away in handcuffs. “They’re treating him like a common criminal!”

“He is a criminal,” I reminded her gently.

She ignored me. “I’m going to appeal! I’ll sell the yacht if I have to.”

“The Plushie Queen barely floats as it is,” I muttered.

John was sentenced to two years in prison, with mandatory counseling and community service upon his release.

Brenda visited him every week, bringing lasagna and updates on her efforts to clear his name. Meanwhile, John quickly earned a reputation in the prison for his odd habits, including knitting tiny scarves for his fellow inmates’ stuffed animals (which, shockingly, were not uncommon in the prison commissary).

As for me, I thought the saga was finally over. But knowing Brenda and John, I had a sinking feeling this was only the beginning.
 
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The Great Plushie Escape

It had been a year since John Price, aka "The Plushie Bandit," was sentenced to two years in prison. I thought life would finally return to normal. Brenda occasionally called to update me on John’s progress, but for the most part, I had managed to distance myself from the bizarre mother-son duo.

Then, one rainy spring night, my doorbell rang.

I opened the door to find a soaking wet, panicked John Price standing on my porch. His prison-issued orange jumpsuit was torn, and he carried an overstuffed trash bag slung over one shoulder.

“John?!” I exclaimed. “What the hell are you doing here?”

He shoved his way inside and slammed the door behind him. “I broke out,” he hissed. “They’re after me. You gotta hide me!”

I stared at him in disbelief as he dropped the trash bag onto my couch. It spilled open, revealing a pile of stuffed animals.

“You broke out of prison?” I asked, still trying to process what was happening.

“With the help of a friend,” John said, puffing out his chest. “Big Teddy. He’s a lifer, but he has a soft spot for plushies. He’s got a tattoo of a teddy bear on his chest—his spirit animal.”

“You escaped prison with a guy named Big Teddy?”

John nodded, as if this were the most normal thing in the world. “He created a distraction in the yard while I scaled the fence. The guards didn’t even notice until I was halfway to the woods.”

I rubbed my temples. “And you came here? Why?”

“Because I can trust you,” John said earnestly. “You’re my mom’s closest friend.”

Brenda called a few hours later.

“Sweetie, have you seen John?” she asked, her voice trembling.

“Funny you should ask,” I said, glaring at the fugitive lounging on my couch. “He’s sitting in my living room with a trash bag full of plushies.”

“Oh, thank God!” Brenda cried. “I was so worried about him. He called me from a payphone and said he was on the run.”

“Brenda, he’s a wanted criminal!”

“He’s my son,” she said firmly. “I don’t care what the law says. He deserves to be free.”

“Well, he’s not staying here,” I said.

But Brenda had already hung up.

Over the next few days, John turned my house into his personal hideout. He barricaded himself in my guest room, which he insisted on calling “Plushie HQ.” Every surface was covered with stuffed animals, and he spent hours whispering to them like some sort of deranged general plotting his next move.

Meanwhile, I lived in constant fear of the authorities showing up.

“This isn’t sustainable, John,” I told him one morning. “You can’t stay here forever.”

“I just need to lay low until the heat dies down,” he said, stroking a stuffed giraffe.

“That’s not how this works!” I snapped. “You’re a felon! They’re not going to just forget about you.”

My worst fears came true a week later when a news report revealed that authorities were closing in on John’s location. They had tracked him to the area and were conducting door-to-door searches.

I confronted John in his makeshift plushie fortress.

“You have to leave,” I said. “They’re going to find you here, and I am not going down with you.”

John looked up from the pile of stuffed animals he was sorting. “I can’t leave. The plushies and I have a bond. They need me.”

I groaned. “The plushies don’t need you, John. They’re inanimate objects.”

His eyes narrowed. “You sound just like the prison therapist.”

As the police drew closer, Brenda showed up unannounced with a backpack full of snacks and a plan.

“We’ll smuggle him out in my car,” she said, brushing past me.

“This is insane,” I said. “You’re going to get both of us arrested.”

“I’d do anything for my baby,” she said, her voice trembling with determination.

The “escape” plan was as ridiculous as I expected. Brenda and John piled into her beat-up station wagon, with John crouched in the back under a blanket. She insisted on taking the scenic route out of town, which only made them more suspicious.

They didn’t make it far before the police caught up with them at a gas station.

As the officers handcuffed John, he shouted, “This isn’t over! The plushies and I will rise again!”

Brenda wailed, “Leave my son alone! He’s a hero, not a criminal!”

John was sent back to prison with an extended sentence, and Brenda was fined for aiding and abetting a fugitive.

As for me, I’ve learned to triple-lock my doors and never answer the phone if Brenda calls. But deep down, I know it’s only a matter of time before she and John drag me into their next misadventure.
 
@John Price the jailbird

IMG_9142.jpeg
 
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