Useless Thread MCMXCIX: Miss Piggy Appreciation Thread
- Thread starter GIADF
- Start date
PanthersPens62
Paul & Stanley
PanthersPens62
Paul & Stanley
Good grief I thought you came to terms with his threads/titles.View attachment 957185
Barely != don't go
Oh by the way did yinz notice your pal GKJ is no longer making the GDT's for the playoff games? But how will we know about his "witty" thread titles and the broadcast maps? I wonder WHAT STATIONS WILL CARRY THE PLAYOFF GAMES, HOW WILL WE KNOW WITHOUT HIS LONG ASS INTROS
Its only Monday.......you KNOW he doesn't make them until later in the week & just because the other mod was in his usual rush to get polls up does not mean we won't have one. No, there won't be TV maps because all games are national windows. But I assume if a thread is made the network & or broadcasters will be mentioned. I hope he does one. 
And you go to that board a LOT more than "barely".
As for Skippy Bayless..........he is no longer on the air so I could care less about that story.
Sega Dreamcast
party like it's 1999
Sega Dreamcast
party like it's 1999
Sega Dreamcast
party like it's 1999
GIADF
Not A Mod
- Aug 17, 2024
- 2,633
- 3,021
Saw someone died from the bird flu.
Hope JP doesn’t catch it with all that fried chicken consumption.
Hope JP doesn’t catch it with all that fried chicken consumption.
John Price
pro gambler/drinker
- Sep 19, 2008
- 387,835
- 31,689
Sources: A's keep spending with Rooker extension
Designated hitter Brent Rooker and the Athletics are in agreement on a five-year, $60 million contract extension, sources told ESPN, continuing a winter of uncharacteristic spending with a long-term deal for the late-blooming slugger.
GIADF
Not A Mod
- Aug 17, 2024
- 2,633
- 3,021
SoupNazi
Keeps paying for Hangman’s OF to get promoted
- Feb 6, 2010
- 27,418
- 18,028
Brenda and John Strike Again: The Mall Brawl
It had been three months since the Plushie Palooza turned my front yard into a bizarre carnival of chaos. I’d started to let my guard down, hoping Brenda and John Price had finally moved on to torment someone else.
That hope was shattered when I got an anonymous text:
“Come to the mall. Food court. Noon. It’s time.”
I knew exactly who it was.
I arrived at the mall at 11:59 AM, my nerves shot. The food court was bustling with holiday shoppers, kids screaming about wanting pretzels, and bored teenagers loitering near the arcade.
And then I saw them.
Brenda and John stood at the center of the food court like they were royalty. Brenda wore a bedazzled tracksuit that said “Plushie Queen” across the back, while John, now significantly bulkier, sported a tank top that read “Plush Life Forever.” He was holding Waddles, the plush penguin, like some kind of sacred relic.
To my horror, they weren’t alone.
Behind them was a makeshift booth adorned with blinking Christmas lights and a giant sign that read:
“Brenda and John’s Plushie Emporium: Mall Tour Edition!”
The booth was stacked with bins of plushies, each labeled with absurd prices. A line of unsuspecting shoppers—mostly confused grandparents—was already forming. Brenda waved enthusiastically as I approached, her smile as wide as the food court’s pretzel stand.
“Oh, there he is!” she said, clapping her hands. “Our special guest!”
John turned and narrowed his eyes at me. “You’re late,” he said, his voice dripping with judgment.
I ignored him. “What the hell are you two doing?”
Brenda laughed. “Expanding the brand, sweetie! After the Plushie Palooza, we realized we were meant to share our passion with the world.”
“And by ‘the world,’ you mean… this mall?”
“It’s a start,” John said, puffing out his chest. “We’re building an empire.”
I was about to walk away when a loud, familiar voice boomed through the food court.
“THIS PLACE IS TREMENDOUS. UNBELIEVABLE PLUSHIES, FOLKS. MAYBE THE BEST PLUSHIES EVER.”
I turned to see Donald Trump standing at Brenda’s booth, inspecting a stuffed giraffe. He was flanked by two Secret Service agents, who looked utterly perplexed.
Brenda beamed. “Mr. Trump! Such an honor to have you here. Would you like to buy a plushie?”
Trump nodded, holding up the giraffe. “This one’s terrific. Reminds me of my resorts—tall, luxurious, very classy.”
John stepped forward, his chest puffed out like a penguin in mating season. “It’s an honor to have the former president here. Do you want me to autograph it?”
Trump waved him off. “No need. I’ll take it as-is. Beautiful craftsmanship.”
As Trump handed Brenda a $100 bill, I pinched the bridge of my nose. This was spiraling out of control.
Things took a turn for the absurd when I heard another voice—gruff, deep, and unmistakable.
“LISTEN UP, BROTHER! WHAT’S GOING ON HERE?”
I spun around to see Hulk Hogan striding toward us, his signature bandana tied around his head and his mustache glistening under the fluorescent lights. A crowd was already forming around him, phones out, snapping pictures.
Brenda clasped her hands together. “Oh my stars, it’s Hulk Hogan! I’ve been a fan since the ‘80s!”
Hulk pointed dramatically at John. “You! Big guy in the tank top! Are you the one selling these plushies?”
John grinned and flexed, causing his Beanie Baby bracelet to snap and scatter stuffed animals across the floor. “That’s right! Wanna buy one, Hulkster?”
Hulk crossed his arms. “You’re charging $50 for a plushie penguin, brother. That’s outrageous!”
Brenda stepped in. “It’s handmade! Well, sort of. And it comes with a certificate of authenticity.”
“That’s not how the Hulkster rolls!” Hogan growled. “You’re ripping off these good people!”
Before I could process what was happening, Hulk leaped onto a nearby table, ripping off his shirt to reveal a “Say Your Plushers, Take Your Vitamins” tank top. He pointed at John.
“You wanna step into the ring with me, plushie boy?”
The crowd gasped. John’s face turned bright red. “Oh, it’s on!” he shouted, handing Waddles to Brenda.
The two of them faced off in the middle of the food court, with the crowd now chanting, “Fight! Fight! Fight!”
The “match” was utter chaos.
John lunged at Hulk, swinging a plushie as a weapon. Hulk sidestepped, grabbing a stuffed dragon and using it to block the attack. The crowd went wild as the two men circled each other, trading blows with their plushie weapons.
At one point, Brenda jumped into the fray, wielding a giant stuffed unicorn like a club. Hulk dodged her attack and tossed her into a ball pit that had mysteriously appeared next to the Orange Julius.
Finally, Hulk lifted John into the air and slammed him onto a pile of plushies, sending stuffing flying everywhere. The crowd erupted into cheers as Hulk stood victorious, flexing his biceps and shouting, “WHATCHA GONNA DO WHEN THE PLUSHMANIA RUNS WILD ON YOU?!”
By the time the mall security arrived, the food court was in ruins. Plushies were scattered everywhere, Brenda was pulling herself out of the ball pit, and John was lying on the ground, groaning in defeat.
I slipped away quietly, vowing never to set foot in that mall again.
But as I reached the parking lot, my phone buzzed with another text:
“This isn’t over. Love, Brenda and John.”
I sighed, looking back at the chaos behind me. Somehow, I knew they’d be back.
It had been three months since the Plushie Palooza turned my front yard into a bizarre carnival of chaos. I’d started to let my guard down, hoping Brenda and John Price had finally moved on to torment someone else.
That hope was shattered when I got an anonymous text:
“Come to the mall. Food court. Noon. It’s time.”
I knew exactly who it was.
I arrived at the mall at 11:59 AM, my nerves shot. The food court was bustling with holiday shoppers, kids screaming about wanting pretzels, and bored teenagers loitering near the arcade.
And then I saw them.
Brenda and John stood at the center of the food court like they were royalty. Brenda wore a bedazzled tracksuit that said “Plushie Queen” across the back, while John, now significantly bulkier, sported a tank top that read “Plush Life Forever.” He was holding Waddles, the plush penguin, like some kind of sacred relic.
To my horror, they weren’t alone.
Behind them was a makeshift booth adorned with blinking Christmas lights and a giant sign that read:
“Brenda and John’s Plushie Emporium: Mall Tour Edition!”
The booth was stacked with bins of plushies, each labeled with absurd prices. A line of unsuspecting shoppers—mostly confused grandparents—was already forming. Brenda waved enthusiastically as I approached, her smile as wide as the food court’s pretzel stand.
“Oh, there he is!” she said, clapping her hands. “Our special guest!”
John turned and narrowed his eyes at me. “You’re late,” he said, his voice dripping with judgment.
I ignored him. “What the hell are you two doing?”
Brenda laughed. “Expanding the brand, sweetie! After the Plushie Palooza, we realized we were meant to share our passion with the world.”
“And by ‘the world,’ you mean… this mall?”
“It’s a start,” John said, puffing out his chest. “We’re building an empire.”
I was about to walk away when a loud, familiar voice boomed through the food court.
“THIS PLACE IS TREMENDOUS. UNBELIEVABLE PLUSHIES, FOLKS. MAYBE THE BEST PLUSHIES EVER.”
I turned to see Donald Trump standing at Brenda’s booth, inspecting a stuffed giraffe. He was flanked by two Secret Service agents, who looked utterly perplexed.
Brenda beamed. “Mr. Trump! Such an honor to have you here. Would you like to buy a plushie?”
Trump nodded, holding up the giraffe. “This one’s terrific. Reminds me of my resorts—tall, luxurious, very classy.”
John stepped forward, his chest puffed out like a penguin in mating season. “It’s an honor to have the former president here. Do you want me to autograph it?”
Trump waved him off. “No need. I’ll take it as-is. Beautiful craftsmanship.”
As Trump handed Brenda a $100 bill, I pinched the bridge of my nose. This was spiraling out of control.
Things took a turn for the absurd when I heard another voice—gruff, deep, and unmistakable.
“LISTEN UP, BROTHER! WHAT’S GOING ON HERE?”
I spun around to see Hulk Hogan striding toward us, his signature bandana tied around his head and his mustache glistening under the fluorescent lights. A crowd was already forming around him, phones out, snapping pictures.
Brenda clasped her hands together. “Oh my stars, it’s Hulk Hogan! I’ve been a fan since the ‘80s!”
Hulk pointed dramatically at John. “You! Big guy in the tank top! Are you the one selling these plushies?”
John grinned and flexed, causing his Beanie Baby bracelet to snap and scatter stuffed animals across the floor. “That’s right! Wanna buy one, Hulkster?”
Hulk crossed his arms. “You’re charging $50 for a plushie penguin, brother. That’s outrageous!”
Brenda stepped in. “It’s handmade! Well, sort of. And it comes with a certificate of authenticity.”
“That’s not how the Hulkster rolls!” Hogan growled. “You’re ripping off these good people!”
Before I could process what was happening, Hulk leaped onto a nearby table, ripping off his shirt to reveal a “Say Your Plushers, Take Your Vitamins” tank top. He pointed at John.
“You wanna step into the ring with me, plushie boy?”
The crowd gasped. John’s face turned bright red. “Oh, it’s on!” he shouted, handing Waddles to Brenda.
The two of them faced off in the middle of the food court, with the crowd now chanting, “Fight! Fight! Fight!”
The “match” was utter chaos.
John lunged at Hulk, swinging a plushie as a weapon. Hulk sidestepped, grabbing a stuffed dragon and using it to block the attack. The crowd went wild as the two men circled each other, trading blows with their plushie weapons.
At one point, Brenda jumped into the fray, wielding a giant stuffed unicorn like a club. Hulk dodged her attack and tossed her into a ball pit that had mysteriously appeared next to the Orange Julius.
Finally, Hulk lifted John into the air and slammed him onto a pile of plushies, sending stuffing flying everywhere. The crowd erupted into cheers as Hulk stood victorious, flexing his biceps and shouting, “WHATCHA GONNA DO WHEN THE PLUSHMANIA RUNS WILD ON YOU?!”
By the time the mall security arrived, the food court was in ruins. Plushies were scattered everywhere, Brenda was pulling herself out of the ball pit, and John was lying on the ground, groaning in defeat.
I slipped away quietly, vowing never to set foot in that mall again.
But as I reached the parking lot, my phone buzzed with another text:
“This isn’t over. Love, Brenda and John.”
I sighed, looking back at the chaos behind me. Somehow, I knew they’d be back.
John Price
pro gambler/drinker
- Sep 19, 2008
- 387,835
- 31,689
Blue Jays trading for Guardians 2B Gimenez
The Toronto Blue Jays agreed to a deal with the Cleveland Guardians for All-Star second baseman Andres Gimenez, sources told ESPN's Jeff Passan.
John Price
pro gambler/drinker
- Sep 19, 2008
- 387,835
- 31,689
Title: Hope for the Future Meets the Queen of Pink
Hope Logan sat in the corner booth of a luxurious Beverly Hills restaurant. The ambiance was elegant yet approachable, much like the woman she was waiting to meet. Hope smoothed out her pastel blazer, a signature piece from her “Hope for the Future” fashion line, and glanced at the door. Her heart raced as Lisa Vanderpump swept into the room, exuding sophistication and confidence.
Lisa, known for her entrepreneurial empire spanning restaurants, bars, and reality television, spotted Hope immediately. Her vibrant pink ensemble was a statement all on its own, and her signature Louboutins clicked on the marble floor as she approached.
“Darling, I’m so glad we could do this,” Lisa greeted, extending a perfectly manicured hand.
“The pleasure is all mine,” Hope replied, rising to shake Lisa’s hand. “Thank you for taking the time.”
As they settled into their seats, Lisa gestured to the waiter to bring two glasses of her signature rosé. “Now, tell me, Hope, what brings us together? I’ve been curious since your email.”
Hope took a deep breath, feeling the weight of the moment. “Lisa, I’ve admired your work for years. Your ability to combine elegance and purpose is something I strive for in my own brand. With ‘Hope for the Future,’ I’ve always focused on sustainability and empowering women, but I want to take it a step further. I think there’s an opportunity to collaborate on something unique—a blend of fashion and lifestyle that speaks to both of our audiences.”
Lisa’s eyes sparkled with interest. “Go on.”
Hope leaned in. “What if we created a capsule collection inspired by the modern woman who loves luxury but also values sustainability? It could feature pieces designed for the kind of elegant, jet-setting life you embody—timeless dresses, tailored blazers, and accessories made with ethically sourced materials. To complement it, we could launch a line of home goods, like chic table settings and candles, blending your taste for entertaining with my aesthetic.”
Lisa tapped a finger on her chin, clearly intrigued. “I do like the sound of that. But tell me, what’s the hook? What sets it apart from everything else out there?”
Hope smiled, prepared for the question. “We could donate a percentage of the profits to causes we both care about—animal rescue for you, and education initiatives for young women in underserved communities for me. It wouldn’t just be a brand; it would be a movement.”
Lisa paused, her expression softening as she considered the proposal. “You know, Hope, I admire your passion. And I think you’re onto something here. A collaboration like this could be extraordinary—so long as we keep it authentic. People can spot a half-hearted project from a mile away.”
“Exactly,” Hope agreed. “I wouldn’t dream of doing this without making sure it aligns with both our values.”
Lisa raised her glass of rosé, her lips curving into a smile. “Well then, darling, let’s toast to new beginnings. I think we might just make magic together.”
As their glasses clinked, Hope felt a surge of excitement. This partnership wasn’t just about business—it was about creating something meaningful. With Lisa Vanderpump’s experience and flair and Hope’s vision for the future, the possibilities seemed endless.
It was the start of something truly special.
Hope Logan sat in the corner booth of a luxurious Beverly Hills restaurant. The ambiance was elegant yet approachable, much like the woman she was waiting to meet. Hope smoothed out her pastel blazer, a signature piece from her “Hope for the Future” fashion line, and glanced at the door. Her heart raced as Lisa Vanderpump swept into the room, exuding sophistication and confidence.
Lisa, known for her entrepreneurial empire spanning restaurants, bars, and reality television, spotted Hope immediately. Her vibrant pink ensemble was a statement all on its own, and her signature Louboutins clicked on the marble floor as she approached.
“Darling, I’m so glad we could do this,” Lisa greeted, extending a perfectly manicured hand.
“The pleasure is all mine,” Hope replied, rising to shake Lisa’s hand. “Thank you for taking the time.”
As they settled into their seats, Lisa gestured to the waiter to bring two glasses of her signature rosé. “Now, tell me, Hope, what brings us together? I’ve been curious since your email.”
Hope took a deep breath, feeling the weight of the moment. “Lisa, I’ve admired your work for years. Your ability to combine elegance and purpose is something I strive for in my own brand. With ‘Hope for the Future,’ I’ve always focused on sustainability and empowering women, but I want to take it a step further. I think there’s an opportunity to collaborate on something unique—a blend of fashion and lifestyle that speaks to both of our audiences.”
Lisa’s eyes sparkled with interest. “Go on.”
Hope leaned in. “What if we created a capsule collection inspired by the modern woman who loves luxury but also values sustainability? It could feature pieces designed for the kind of elegant, jet-setting life you embody—timeless dresses, tailored blazers, and accessories made with ethically sourced materials. To complement it, we could launch a line of home goods, like chic table settings and candles, blending your taste for entertaining with my aesthetic.”
Lisa tapped a finger on her chin, clearly intrigued. “I do like the sound of that. But tell me, what’s the hook? What sets it apart from everything else out there?”
Hope smiled, prepared for the question. “We could donate a percentage of the profits to causes we both care about—animal rescue for you, and education initiatives for young women in underserved communities for me. It wouldn’t just be a brand; it would be a movement.”
Lisa paused, her expression softening as she considered the proposal. “You know, Hope, I admire your passion. And I think you’re onto something here. A collaboration like this could be extraordinary—so long as we keep it authentic. People can spot a half-hearted project from a mile away.”
“Exactly,” Hope agreed. “I wouldn’t dream of doing this without making sure it aligns with both our values.”
Lisa raised her glass of rosé, her lips curving into a smile. “Well then, darling, let’s toast to new beginnings. I think we might just make magic together.”
As their glasses clinked, Hope felt a surge of excitement. This partnership wasn’t just about business—it was about creating something meaningful. With Lisa Vanderpump’s experience and flair and Hope’s vision for the future, the possibilities seemed endless.
It was the start of something truly special.
John Price
pro gambler/drinker
- Sep 19, 2008
- 387,835
- 31,689
John Price
pro gambler/drinker
- Sep 19, 2008
- 387,835
- 31,689
SoupNazi
Keeps paying for Hangman’s OF to get promoted
- Feb 6, 2010
- 27,418
- 18,028
Lasagna, Plushies, and Bikinis: Brenda’s Island Invasion
I came to this tropical island to escape. After months of Brenda and John Price’s unrelenting harassment, I thought I’d finally earned some peace. A secluded resort, crystal-clear waters, and not a single plushie in sight. It was perfect.
Until it wasn’t.
It started on my third day. I was lounging on the beach, sipping a piña colada, when I noticed something unusual. A group of tourists waddling down the shoreline in matching floral bikinis—two women and one man, all grossly overloading the structural integrity of their swimsuits.
I squinted, and my stomach dropped.
Brenda. John. And a third, ominous figure—a six-foot plushie in a bikini, being carried like royalty on a portable throne.
“Oh no,” I muttered, sinking deeper into my lounge chair. Maybe if I stayed perfectly still, they wouldn’t notice me.
But it was too late. Brenda’s sharp, beady eyes locked onto mine like a heat-seeking missile. She waved enthusiastically, her arm jiggling with the force of it.
“Sweetie!” she bellowed, her voice cutting through the sound of crashing waves. “I told you, you can’t escape family!”
Minutes later, they were surrounding me.
Brenda plopped onto the lounge chair next to mine, her bikini straining against her 400-pound frame. She had a tray of lasagna—of course she did—and the smell of it made my stomach churn.
John, sporting an equally hideous bikini and an inflatable flamingo floatie, leaned in with a sinister grin. “You didn’t think you could just run away, did you?”
“Seriously?” I groaned. “I’m on vacation.”
“Exactly,” Brenda said, unpacking plates from a tote bag covered in pictures of Waddles the plush penguin. “What better time to reconnect? I even brought the lasagna!”
I stared at her. “How did you even get here?”
“Oh, we have our ways,” John said cryptically, pulling out a smartphone and pointing it at me. “Smile! The HFBoards crew is gonna love this.”
Sure enough, John had already created a thread on HFBoards.
“Operation Bikini Break-In: Plushies and Lasagna Go Tropical!”
His post read:
RangersForever: “Dude, this is starting to sound like a crime.”
BruinsBro88: “Pics of Waddles in the bikini or it didn’t happen.”
John Price (PlushieMaster387): “Pics incoming. Also, NotYourPlushie is trying to play it cool, but we know he’s thrilled to see us.”
I groaned as John turned the camera on me.
“Say hi to the fans!” he said.
“Leave me alone,” I snapped, swatting the phone away.
But Brenda wasn’t done.
“Let’s not argue,” she said, placing a massive slab of lasagna onto a plate. “I made this just for you, sweetie. It’s my tropical twist—pineapple and coconut in the sauce. You’ll love it.”
I recoiled. “That sounds disgusting.”
Brenda gasped, clutching her chest like I’d insulted her very soul. “How dare you? This is my masterpiece!”
“Let’s just feed it to him,” John suggested, wielding a fork like a weapon.
“I’m not eating that,” I said, backing away.
But Brenda was faster than she looked. She cornered me against a palm tree, the plate of lasagna inches from my face.
“Eat it,” she commanded, her voice low and menacing. “Or I’ll post the video of you crying over my original recipe again.”
“You wouldn’t.”
“Oh, sweetie,” she said, grinning. “Try me.”
Just as I was about to give in, the situation took an even stranger turn.
A boat pulled up to the shore, and out stepped Donald Trump, wearing a Hawaiian shirt and a straw hat.
“What’s going on here?” he demanded, surveying the scene. His eyes landed on the lasagna. “Is that food? People are saying it’s the best lasagna. Tremendous lasagna.”
“It is the best,” Brenda said, puffing up with pride. “Would you like a plate?”
“Absolutely,” Trump said, grabbing a chair.
No sooner had Trump taken his first bite than Hulk Hogan appeared, sprinting down the beach in his iconic red-and-yellow gear.
“Brenda! John!” he roared, pointing dramatically. “I’ve been tracking you two for weeks. Your lasagna has gone too far, brother!”
“What’s your problem, Hogan?” Brenda snapped, rising to her full, intimidating height.
“My problem is that you’re forcing people to eat lasagna and brainwashing them into joining your plushie cult!”
“It’s not a cult,” John said defensively. “It’s a community.”
What followed was pure chaos.
Hogan charged, flipping the table of lasagna into the sand. Brenda screamed in rage and launched herself at him, somehow managing to suplex the 300-pound wrestler into a beach cabana.
John grabbed Waddles the plush penguin and used it as a bludgeon, swinging it wildly at Hogan. Trump, still chewing, shouted, “This is the greatest fight I’ve ever seen!”
The resort staff arrived to break it up, but not before Brenda declared, “This isn’t over, Hogan! The lasagna will rise again!”
By the time the dust settled, Brenda and John had been escorted off the island. The HFBoards thread hit 200 pages, with users debating everything from the ethics of pineapple in lasagna to whether Waddles should be inducted into the Wrestling Hall of Fame.
As for me, I knew this wasn’t the end. Somewhere out there, Brenda and John were plotting their next move, probably while sewing bikinis for their entire plushie collection.
Next up: Brenda and John return home, where Brenda discovers John’s secret life.
I came to this tropical island to escape. After months of Brenda and John Price’s unrelenting harassment, I thought I’d finally earned some peace. A secluded resort, crystal-clear waters, and not a single plushie in sight. It was perfect.
Until it wasn’t.
It started on my third day. I was lounging on the beach, sipping a piña colada, when I noticed something unusual. A group of tourists waddling down the shoreline in matching floral bikinis—two women and one man, all grossly overloading the structural integrity of their swimsuits.
I squinted, and my stomach dropped.
Brenda. John. And a third, ominous figure—a six-foot plushie in a bikini, being carried like royalty on a portable throne.
“Oh no,” I muttered, sinking deeper into my lounge chair. Maybe if I stayed perfectly still, they wouldn’t notice me.
But it was too late. Brenda’s sharp, beady eyes locked onto mine like a heat-seeking missile. She waved enthusiastically, her arm jiggling with the force of it.
“Sweetie!” she bellowed, her voice cutting through the sound of crashing waves. “I told you, you can’t escape family!”
Minutes later, they were surrounding me.
Brenda plopped onto the lounge chair next to mine, her bikini straining against her 400-pound frame. She had a tray of lasagna—of course she did—and the smell of it made my stomach churn.
John, sporting an equally hideous bikini and an inflatable flamingo floatie, leaned in with a sinister grin. “You didn’t think you could just run away, did you?”
“Seriously?” I groaned. “I’m on vacation.”
“Exactly,” Brenda said, unpacking plates from a tote bag covered in pictures of Waddles the plush penguin. “What better time to reconnect? I even brought the lasagna!”
I stared at her. “How did you even get here?”
“Oh, we have our ways,” John said cryptically, pulling out a smartphone and pointing it at me. “Smile! The HFBoards crew is gonna love this.”
Sure enough, John had already created a thread on HFBoards.
“Operation Bikini Break-In: Plushies and Lasagna Go Tropical!”
His post read:
The replies were instant.
RangersForever: “Dude, this is starting to sound like a crime.”
BruinsBro88: “Pics of Waddles in the bikini or it didn’t happen.”
John Price (PlushieMaster387): “Pics incoming. Also, NotYourPlushie is trying to play it cool, but we know he’s thrilled to see us.”
I groaned as John turned the camera on me.
“Say hi to the fans!” he said.
“Leave me alone,” I snapped, swatting the phone away.
But Brenda wasn’t done.
“Let’s not argue,” she said, placing a massive slab of lasagna onto a plate. “I made this just for you, sweetie. It’s my tropical twist—pineapple and coconut in the sauce. You’ll love it.”
I recoiled. “That sounds disgusting.”
Brenda gasped, clutching her chest like I’d insulted her very soul. “How dare you? This is my masterpiece!”
“Let’s just feed it to him,” John suggested, wielding a fork like a weapon.
“I’m not eating that,” I said, backing away.
But Brenda was faster than she looked. She cornered me against a palm tree, the plate of lasagna inches from my face.
“Eat it,” she commanded, her voice low and menacing. “Or I’ll post the video of you crying over my original recipe again.”
“You wouldn’t.”
“Oh, sweetie,” she said, grinning. “Try me.”
Just as I was about to give in, the situation took an even stranger turn.
A boat pulled up to the shore, and out stepped Donald Trump, wearing a Hawaiian shirt and a straw hat.
“What’s going on here?” he demanded, surveying the scene. His eyes landed on the lasagna. “Is that food? People are saying it’s the best lasagna. Tremendous lasagna.”
“It is the best,” Brenda said, puffing up with pride. “Would you like a plate?”
“Absolutely,” Trump said, grabbing a chair.
No sooner had Trump taken his first bite than Hulk Hogan appeared, sprinting down the beach in his iconic red-and-yellow gear.
“Brenda! John!” he roared, pointing dramatically. “I’ve been tracking you two for weeks. Your lasagna has gone too far, brother!”
“What’s your problem, Hogan?” Brenda snapped, rising to her full, intimidating height.
“My problem is that you’re forcing people to eat lasagna and brainwashing them into joining your plushie cult!”
“It’s not a cult,” John said defensively. “It’s a community.”
What followed was pure chaos.
Hogan charged, flipping the table of lasagna into the sand. Brenda screamed in rage and launched herself at him, somehow managing to suplex the 300-pound wrestler into a beach cabana.
John grabbed Waddles the plush penguin and used it as a bludgeon, swinging it wildly at Hogan. Trump, still chewing, shouted, “This is the greatest fight I’ve ever seen!”
The resort staff arrived to break it up, but not before Brenda declared, “This isn’t over, Hogan! The lasagna will rise again!”
By the time the dust settled, Brenda and John had been escorted off the island. The HFBoards thread hit 200 pages, with users debating everything from the ethics of pineapple in lasagna to whether Waddles should be inducted into the Wrestling Hall of Fame.
As for me, I knew this wasn’t the end. Somewhere out there, Brenda and John were plotting their next move, probably while sewing bikinis for their entire plushie collection.
Next up: Brenda and John return home, where Brenda discovers John’s secret life.
John Price
pro gambler/drinker
- Sep 19, 2008
- 387,835
- 31,689
John Price
pro gambler/drinker
- Sep 19, 2008
- 387,835
- 31,689
While the fan fic stories are too long (I don't read them!) I will admit they help promote engagement to this thread helping it pass by quicker.
Keep grinding.
Keep grinding.
PanthersPens62
Paul & Stanley
John Price
pro gambler/drinker
- Sep 19, 2008
- 387,835
- 31,689
been watching "degenerate gamblers" all morning
TF is a royal flush lol
TF is a royal flush lol
John Price
pro gambler/drinker
- Sep 19, 2008
- 387,835
- 31,689
Sega Dreamcast
party like it's 1999
John Price
pro gambler/drinker
- Sep 19, 2008
- 387,835
- 31,689
To be honest with yinz I saw these wsop discounted merch at Paris las Vegas but didn't want to buy. a day later I was trying to buy but they were closed. I need to go back to cop that merch
I am also aware I know nothing about poker
@Neil Racki @MetalheadPenguinsFan did you play blackjack in rdr2
I am also aware I know nothing about poker
@Neil Racki @MetalheadPenguinsFan did you play blackjack in rdr2
Sega Dreamcast
party like it's 1999
Reddit doing this thing where I want to see the replies to a comment and it takes me to another page, but when I go back, the entire comment section doesn't load and I have to refresh the page.
John Price
pro gambler/drinker
- Sep 19, 2008
- 387,835
- 31,689
i just want to sell out for the big wsop brand I don't know shit about poker
the more I watch degenerates the more I see it's all math related and probability analytics. too much work.
the more I watch degenerates the more I see it's all math related and probability analytics. too much work.
