SoupNazi
Keeps paying for Hangman’s OF to get promoted
- Joined
- Feb 6, 2010
- Messages
- 27,447
- Likes
- 18,103
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.
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.
Hey lets give Mr. Price 3 bonus points for actually eating a salad ! 
Maybe "produced" is a poor word choice but he sure as hell is responsible for bringing him & Mr. Cavinder to The U. 
Let me know when the Hokies sign a premiere QB from the portal.
