PanthersPens62
Paul & Stanley
And the same to you !!!
IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIt's a Panthers win !!! 
Useless Thread MCMXCVII - 51 Year Old Spams His Plushies (Xmas Still Canceled)
- Thread starter Mantis
- Start date
- Status
IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIt's a Panthers win !!! 
End of Line
Sic Semper Tyrannis
- Mar 20, 2009
- 28,683
- 6,357
SoupNazi
Keeps paying for Hangman’s OF to get promoted
- Feb 6, 2010
- 27,326
- 17,756
John Price was no stranger to solitude. At 40, he had built his life around the comforts of his apartment, his love of hockey, and his pride and joy: a collection of 7,697 plushies. Each plushie held a story, a memory, or a special significance. They were his closest companions, far more dependable than the people he knew from HFBoards' infamous “Useless Thread,” where he spent his evenings bickering about hockey and trading jokes with fellow loners.
One chilly December morning, tragedy struck. As John was rearranging his shelves to make room for his latest addition—a rare, limited-edition llama plush—he noticed a glaring gap in his display. Fuzzlebutt, a small, scruffy-looking raccoon plush that he’d had since childhood, was missing.
Panic set in. John tore through his apartment, checking every corner, closet, and crevice. Fuzzlebutt was gone. His heart ached as if he’d lost a part of himself. He couldn’t bear the thought of life without the plushie that had comforted him through his most awkward teenage years and countless lonely nights.
In desperation, John turned to the HFBoards for help.
"Emergency: my Fuzzlebutt plush is missing. Any ideas on how to find him?"
The replies came quickly, a mix of mocking and genuine concern.
"Have you checked under your bed?"
"File a missing plush report with the cops."
"Ask Santa for help, lol."
That last comment stuck with him. It was the holiday season, after all. Maybe, just maybe, a mall Santa could offer some kind of Christmas miracle.
Later that day, John arrived at the local mall, where a Santa’s Village had been set up in the atrium. He felt a bit out of place among the families and children, but his determination outweighed his embarrassment. After waiting in line for nearly an hour, it was finally his turn.
The mall Santa was a wiry man with a red suit that didn’t quite fit and a beard that smelled faintly of cigarettes. He patted his lap and motioned for John to sit down.
John hesitated but eventually perched awkwardly on the man’s lap, feeling every eye in the mall burning into him.
“What can Santa do for you, big guy?” Santa asked, his voice gruff but vaguely amused.
John pulled out a small printed photo of Fuzzlebutt that he’d taken from his plushie catalog. “This is Fuzzlebutt. He’s been with me since I was a kid, and now he’s missing. I don’t know who else to ask.”
Santa stared at the photo, blinking slowly. “You’re telling me you lost… this little raccoon thing?”
“Yes,” John said earnestly. “He’s very special to me. I thought maybe you could help—like with Christmas magic or something?”
Santa stifled a laugh and gave John a condescending pat on the shoulder. “Sure thing, pal. I’ll, uh, put in a good word with my elves. Just tell me your name and address, so I know where to deliver him if we find him.”
Grateful for even a sliver of hope, John eagerly rattled off his details. As he spoke, Santa’s hand slipped into John’s coat pocket, lifting his wallet with practiced ease.
“Don’t you worry, kiddo,” Santa said, standing up and ushering John off his lap. “Santa’s on the case!”
John walked away feeling slightly lighter—not with relief, but because his wallet was gone.
John didn’t realize the theft until he stopped at the food court for a pretzel. When he reached for his wallet, it was nowhere to be found. Panic turned to dread as he retraced his steps back to Santa’s Village, only to find that Santa had disappeared, replaced by a fresh-faced stand-in who clearly wasn’t the same man.
Mall security was no help. The best they could offer was a shrug and a promise to “keep an eye out.” Defeated, John trudged home, his heart heavy and his bank account now at the mercy of a mall Santa.
Over the next few days, charges began to appear on John’s account: liquor stores, fast food, even a rental for a karaoke machine. Each transaction felt like another stab to his dignity. He called the bank to freeze his cards, but the damage was done. Meanwhile, Fuzzlebutt remained missing.
John tried to console himself by immersing himself in the HFBoards, but the mockery was relentless.
"Find Fuzzlebutt yet?"
"Maybe he ran off with Santa."
"Sounds like you got played, buddy."
Despite the humiliation, John kept posting updates. He held onto a faint, irrational hope that Fuzzlebutt might somehow find his way back. But as the days turned into weeks, it became clear that neither the wallet nor the plushie would return.
Christmas came and went, leaving John alone in his apartment. His shelves still displayed 7,696 plushies, but the absence of Fuzzlebutt felt like a gaping hole. He sat on his couch, staring at the empty spot where Fuzzlebutt used to sit, clutching his llama plush for comfort.
For the first time in years, John considered the possibility that his collection wasn’t enough to fill the void in his life. But even as that thought crossed his mind, he quickly pushed it aside. Fuzzlebutt might be gone, but he still had his plushies. He still had the HFBoards.
And maybe, just maybe, that was enough. For now.
One chilly December morning, tragedy struck. As John was rearranging his shelves to make room for his latest addition—a rare, limited-edition llama plush—he noticed a glaring gap in his display. Fuzzlebutt, a small, scruffy-looking raccoon plush that he’d had since childhood, was missing.
Panic set in. John tore through his apartment, checking every corner, closet, and crevice. Fuzzlebutt was gone. His heart ached as if he’d lost a part of himself. He couldn’t bear the thought of life without the plushie that had comforted him through his most awkward teenage years and countless lonely nights.
In desperation, John turned to the HFBoards for help.
"Emergency: my Fuzzlebutt plush is missing. Any ideas on how to find him?"
The replies came quickly, a mix of mocking and genuine concern.
"Have you checked under your bed?"
"File a missing plush report with the cops."
"Ask Santa for help, lol."
That last comment stuck with him. It was the holiday season, after all. Maybe, just maybe, a mall Santa could offer some kind of Christmas miracle.
Later that day, John arrived at the local mall, where a Santa’s Village had been set up in the atrium. He felt a bit out of place among the families and children, but his determination outweighed his embarrassment. After waiting in line for nearly an hour, it was finally his turn.
The mall Santa was a wiry man with a red suit that didn’t quite fit and a beard that smelled faintly of cigarettes. He patted his lap and motioned for John to sit down.
John hesitated but eventually perched awkwardly on the man’s lap, feeling every eye in the mall burning into him.
“What can Santa do for you, big guy?” Santa asked, his voice gruff but vaguely amused.
John pulled out a small printed photo of Fuzzlebutt that he’d taken from his plushie catalog. “This is Fuzzlebutt. He’s been with me since I was a kid, and now he’s missing. I don’t know who else to ask.”
Santa stared at the photo, blinking slowly. “You’re telling me you lost… this little raccoon thing?”
“Yes,” John said earnestly. “He’s very special to me. I thought maybe you could help—like with Christmas magic or something?”
Santa stifled a laugh and gave John a condescending pat on the shoulder. “Sure thing, pal. I’ll, uh, put in a good word with my elves. Just tell me your name and address, so I know where to deliver him if we find him.”
Grateful for even a sliver of hope, John eagerly rattled off his details. As he spoke, Santa’s hand slipped into John’s coat pocket, lifting his wallet with practiced ease.
“Don’t you worry, kiddo,” Santa said, standing up and ushering John off his lap. “Santa’s on the case!”
John walked away feeling slightly lighter—not with relief, but because his wallet was gone.
John didn’t realize the theft until he stopped at the food court for a pretzel. When he reached for his wallet, it was nowhere to be found. Panic turned to dread as he retraced his steps back to Santa’s Village, only to find that Santa had disappeared, replaced by a fresh-faced stand-in who clearly wasn’t the same man.
Mall security was no help. The best they could offer was a shrug and a promise to “keep an eye out.” Defeated, John trudged home, his heart heavy and his bank account now at the mercy of a mall Santa.
Over the next few days, charges began to appear on John’s account: liquor stores, fast food, even a rental for a karaoke machine. Each transaction felt like another stab to his dignity. He called the bank to freeze his cards, but the damage was done. Meanwhile, Fuzzlebutt remained missing.
John tried to console himself by immersing himself in the HFBoards, but the mockery was relentless.
"Find Fuzzlebutt yet?"
"Maybe he ran off with Santa."
"Sounds like you got played, buddy."
Despite the humiliation, John kept posting updates. He held onto a faint, irrational hope that Fuzzlebutt might somehow find his way back. But as the days turned into weeks, it became clear that neither the wallet nor the plushie would return.
Christmas came and went, leaving John alone in his apartment. His shelves still displayed 7,696 plushies, but the absence of Fuzzlebutt felt like a gaping hole. He sat on his couch, staring at the empty spot where Fuzzlebutt used to sit, clutching his llama plush for comfort.
For the first time in years, John considered the possibility that his collection wasn’t enough to fill the void in his life. But even as that thought crossed his mind, he quickly pushed it aside. Fuzzlebutt might be gone, but he still had his plushies. He still had the HFBoards.
And maybe, just maybe, that was enough. For now.
John Price
pro gambler/drinker
- Sep 19, 2008
- 387,209
- 31,439
To all the shit talkers out there: You really think I was living off other people’s money? 
What are you, crazy? I was a MILLIONAIRE at 29.
The difference between me and you? While you’re stuck on a bicycle like Lance Armstrong, I’m walking on the moon like Neil Armstrong. 
I’m at 36,000 feet—while you’re barely scraping 18,000.
The truth is coming, and I’m just getting started.
John Price
pro gambler/drinker
- Sep 19, 2008
- 387,209
- 31,439
John Price
pro gambler/drinker
- Sep 19, 2008
- 387,209
- 31,439
John Price
pro gambler/drinker
- Sep 19, 2008
- 387,209
- 31,439
PanthersPens62
Paul & Stanley
End of Line
Sic Semper Tyrannis
- Mar 20, 2009
- 28,683
- 6,357
There is a serious lack of people at College Gameday. Are Buckeye fans checked out?
It’s 23 degrees and the game isn’t for another 10hrs
John Price
pro gambler/drinker
- Sep 19, 2008
- 387,209
- 31,439
John Price
pro gambler/drinker
- Sep 19, 2008
- 387,209
- 31,439
John Price
pro gambler/drinker
- Sep 19, 2008
- 387,209
- 31,439
John Price
pro gambler/drinker
- Sep 19, 2008
- 387,209
- 31,439
GIADF
Not A Mod
- Aug 17, 2024
- 2,331
- 2,694
John Price
pro gambler/drinker
- Sep 19, 2008
- 387,209
- 31,439
There is a serious lack of people at College Gameday. Are Buckeye fans checked out?
you're just mad you're not from Schaumburg.
GIADF
Not A Mod
- Aug 17, 2024
- 2,331
- 2,694
Not going to watch this but I can only imagine it’s Tennessee fans doing something dumb and obnoxious.
They’re an awful fan base.
Schaumburg sucks. It’s nothing but strip malls and typical suburban hell.
John Price
pro gambler/drinker
- Sep 19, 2008
- 387,209
- 31,439
Nice Saturday morning for the furnace to go out
Schaumburg sucks bro. Chi-Town through and through here
John Price
pro gambler/drinker
- Sep 19, 2008
- 387,209
- 31,439
What does rich people living there even have to do with it being a boring ass placeWhat
But all the rich people live there
John Price
pro gambler/drinker
- Sep 19, 2008
- 387,209
- 31,439
John Price
pro gambler/drinker
- Sep 19, 2008
- 387,209
- 31,439
John Price
pro gambler/drinker
- Sep 19, 2008
- 387,209
- 31,439
Omg 
Schaumburg is Beverly Hills compared to most areas of Chi town. What the hell ya talking about??
Schaumburg is Beverly Hills compared to most areas of Chi town. What the hell ya talking about??
GIADF
Not A Mod
- Aug 17, 2024
- 2,331
- 2,694
I was there for the first Bears game and am going back in March.
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