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Useless Thread MCMXCIX: Miss Piggy Appreciation Thread | Page 30 | HFBoards - NHL Message Board and Forum for National Hockey League
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Useless Thread MCMXCIX: Miss Piggy Appreciation Thread

What's the Wings winning streak at?

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A Sea of Poor Decisions

Despite the catastrophic failure of The Plushie Queen’s debut, Brenda remained steadfast in her mission to infiltrate the local yacht club. She believed that her boat and her "plushie revolution" deserved recognition. And, in typical Brenda fashion, she wasn’t taking no for an answer.

“It’s all about persistence, sweetie,” she told me over the phone one evening. “These yacht club types need to see that we’re serious.”

“Serious about what?” I asked, half-listening as I scrolled through my emails.

“About plushie-based luxury living, of course!”

I groaned. “Please tell me this isn’t going to end in another public disaster.”

“It won’t,” Brenda said confidently. “This time, we’ve got a plan.”

Brenda’s “plan” involved hosting a cocktail party aboard The Plushie Queen, exclusively for yacht club members. She’d somehow convinced a few of them to attend by promising “an unforgettable evening of fine dining and plushie charm.”

Naturally, I was roped into helping.

The evening of the party arrived, and The Plushie Queen looked slightly less disastrous than usual. Brenda had splurged on white tablecloths and fairy lights, which gave the deck a vaguely festive feel. She’d also managed to disguise some of the boat’s rust with strategically placed banners reading, “WELCOME TO PLUSHIE PARADISE!”

John, however, was less polished.

He greeted guests at the gangplank wearing a captain’s uniform two sizes too small, complete with epaulets and a gold-trimmed hat. Every time someone boarded the yacht, he saluted with such enthusiasm that his hat nearly flew off.

“Welcome aboard!” he barked at an elderly woman in pearls. “Prepare for a voyage of luxury and… um… plushitude!”

The woman gave him a bewildered look but stepped onto the boat anyway.

As the party got underway, Brenda played the perfect host, circulating among the guests with a tray of hors d’oeuvres. She worked the crowd like a pro, singing the praises of The Plushie Queen and waxing poetic about her vision for “plushie yachting as the future of leisure.”

Meanwhile, John had stationed himself near the buffet table, nervously sipping punch and eyeing the plushies scattered around the deck.

I noticed him fidgeting with a stuffed penguin, his gaze darting around like a guilty child.

“John,” I said, approaching him cautiously, “are you okay?”

He jumped, dropping the penguin. “Fine! Totally fine! Why wouldn’t I be fine?”

I narrowed my eyes. “You’re acting weird.”

“I’m not acting weird!” he snapped, then immediately softened. “Sorry. It’s just… it’s hard being around all these plushies, you know? They’re so soft and…” He trailed off, his cheeks turning red.

Oh no.

“John,” I said slowly, “you’re not thinking about—”

“I said I’m fine!” he interrupted, snatching up the penguin and fleeing below deck.

The party was in full swing when disaster struck.

One of the yacht club members—a silver-haired man named Charles—was in the middle of complimenting Brenda on the lasagna when a loud thud echoed from below deck.

“What was that?” Charles asked, frowning.

Brenda’s smile faltered. “Oh, probably nothing! Just the engine… um… adjusting!”

Another thud. This one louder.

The guests began to murmur nervously.

“I’ll check it out,” I said, already dreading what I’d find.

I found John in the cramped cabin, surrounded by plushies. He’d clearly lost the battle with his urges. A plushie dolphin lay on the floor, looking… disheveled. John was sitting on the edge of a bunk, clutching a stuffed otter and muttering to himself.

“John,” I hissed, “what are you doing?”

He looked up at me, wide-eyed. “I couldn’t help it!” he whispered. “They’re just so… inviting.”

“Inviting?!” I exclaimed, trying to keep my voice down. “You’re supposed to be hosting a party, not… this!”

“I know!” he wailed, burying his face in the otter. “I tried, okay? But the pressure got to me, and then I saw the dolphin, and…”

I held up a hand. “Stop. Just stop. We need to get you out of here before someone finds out.”

Too late.

As I was dragging John up the stairs, Brenda appeared at the top of the hatch.

“What’s going on down here?” she demanded, hands on her hips.

“Nothing!” I said quickly, but John chose that moment to let out a loud, guilty sob.

Brenda’s eyes narrowed. She looked at the plushie carnage around us, then at John, and sighed deeply.

“Sweetie,” she said, her tone equal parts exasperated and resigned, “did you pinch out another log of shame?”

John sniffled. “I didn’t mean to, Mom. I swear.”

Brenda rubbed her temples. “We’ll talk about this later. Right now, we need to salvage the party.”

The party, unsurprisingly, did not end well.

The thuds and muffled shouting from below deck had spooked the guests, and when Brenda returned to the deck with a forced smile and a punch bowl refill, most of them made polite excuses and left.

Charles, the silver-haired man, stayed just long enough to say, “I don’t think this is the right fit for our club,” before stepping onto the dock and vanishing into the night.

Brenda watched him go, her jaw clenched. “They wouldn’t know innovation if it hit them in the face,” she muttered.

John, still clutching the otter, whispered, “I’m sorry, Mom.”

Brenda sighed. “It’s not your fault, sweetie. Some people just aren’t ready for the plushie revolution.”

As I walked home that night, I couldn’t help but marvel at Brenda’s unshakable determination. No matter how many disasters she faced, she always found a way to keep going.

But as for John, I could only hope he’d get the help he so desperately needed. Because if there was one thing I’d learned, it was that no plushie—no matter how soft—was safe in his hands.
 
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