John Price
pro gambler/drinker
- Sep 19, 2008
- 388,697
- 32,017
Useless Thread MM: Lasagna Appreciation Thread
- Thread starter John Price
- Start date
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Mantis
I am a doctah
John Price
pro gambler/drinker
- Sep 19, 2008
- 388,697
- 32,017
John Price
pro gambler/drinker
- Sep 19, 2008
- 388,697
- 32,017
End of Line
Sic Semper Tyrannis
- Mar 20, 2009
- 29,233
- 6,882
John Price
pro gambler/drinker
- Sep 19, 2008
- 388,697
- 32,017
John Price
pro gambler/drinker
- Sep 19, 2008
- 388,697
- 32,017
SoupNazi
Keeps paying for Hangman’s OF to get promoted
- Feb 6, 2010
- 27,624
- 18,532
SoupNazi
Keeps paying for Hangman’s OF to get promoted
- Feb 6, 2010
- 27,624
- 18,532
SoupNazi
Keeps paying for Hangman’s OF to get promoted
- Feb 6, 2010
- 27,624
- 18,532
The day of the plushie polka debut had finally arrived. Stanley Park was buzzing with curious onlookers, plushie enthusiasts, and, for some inexplicable reason, a few people selling organic tomato salsa at nearby stands. Juan and Brenda had been hyping up their performance for days, handing out fliers, posting on obscure plushie forums, and even bribing a street performer to mention them in his act.
As the “Plushie Polka Palooza” stage was unveiled—a rickety wooden platform with a banner that looked like it had been drawn by a toddler—Juan stepped forward in his lederhosen plushie costume, gripping a microphone with sweaty determination.
“Ladies and gentlemen!” Juan bellowed, his voice cracking. “Prepare yourselves for the most groundbreaking performance of your lives. This is not just music. This is a movement. This is... the Plushie Polka Revolution!”
A smattering of confused applause rippled through the crowd. Someone in the back yelled, “Get on with it!”
Brenda, decked out in a sequined dress covered in patches of lasagna stains, took her place behind a keyboard set to “accordion mode.” She gave me a frantic thumbs-up from her position at the drums. Yes, I was on drums. How did they rope me into this? I still wasn’t sure.
Juan launched into their opening number, “Polka for the Plushies.” It was... bad. Really bad. Brenda’s keyboard sounded like a carnival ride breaking down, and Juan’s singing could only be described as a cross between a yodel and a cat being stepped on. To make matters worse, Juan had decided to “enhance” the performance by flinging plushies into the crowd. One hit an old woman square in the face. She did not look pleased.
By the second verse, the crowd had turned hostile. Booing erupted from all sides. People started yelling things like, “Bring back the guy juggling fire!” and “Is this a prank?!” A tomato flew through the air and splattered on Juan’s lederhosen.
“Is that all you’ve got?” Juan shouted, clearly unaware that this was not encouragement. “The plushies will not be silenced!”
Another tomato hit him square in the chest. Brenda tried to salvage the situation by yelling into her mic, “This is a real banger of a show, isn’t it, folks?” That only made things worse. The crowd began hurling an avalanche of tomatoes, some of which landed on me as I futilely banged on the drum kit.
Juan, ever the showman, refused to back down. “The plushies demand justice!” he cried, raising a stuffed penguin over his head like a trophy. But his rallying cry was drowned out by the roar of boos and the splat of another tomato smacking him in the face. The plush penguin fell limply to the stage, stained with tomato juice.
Finally, Brenda grabbed Juan by the lederhosen straps and hauled him offstage. “Time to retreat, Juan! These people don’t appreciate genius!”
We barely made it back to the van. Brenda and Juan, both covered in tomato remnants, sat in silence for a moment. Finally, Brenda broke the tension with a sigh. “Well, that was a real banger of a disaster.”
Juan wiped tomato pulp off his face and muttered, “They’re just not ready for polka. They’ll see. One day, they’ll see.”
I groaned and leaned back in my seat. “I don’t think anyone’s ever going to be ready for whatever this was.”
As we drove off, Brenda looked at Juan and said, “You know, I hear there’s a big plushie convention in Seattle next month. Maybe they’ll appreciate what we’re doing.”
I buried my face in my hands. This nightmare was far from over.
As the “Plushie Polka Palooza” stage was unveiled—a rickety wooden platform with a banner that looked like it had been drawn by a toddler—Juan stepped forward in his lederhosen plushie costume, gripping a microphone with sweaty determination.
“Ladies and gentlemen!” Juan bellowed, his voice cracking. “Prepare yourselves for the most groundbreaking performance of your lives. This is not just music. This is a movement. This is... the Plushie Polka Revolution!”
A smattering of confused applause rippled through the crowd. Someone in the back yelled, “Get on with it!”
Brenda, decked out in a sequined dress covered in patches of lasagna stains, took her place behind a keyboard set to “accordion mode.” She gave me a frantic thumbs-up from her position at the drums. Yes, I was on drums. How did they rope me into this? I still wasn’t sure.
Juan launched into their opening number, “Polka for the Plushies.” It was... bad. Really bad. Brenda’s keyboard sounded like a carnival ride breaking down, and Juan’s singing could only be described as a cross between a yodel and a cat being stepped on. To make matters worse, Juan had decided to “enhance” the performance by flinging plushies into the crowd. One hit an old woman square in the face. She did not look pleased.
By the second verse, the crowd had turned hostile. Booing erupted from all sides. People started yelling things like, “Bring back the guy juggling fire!” and “Is this a prank?!” A tomato flew through the air and splattered on Juan’s lederhosen.
“Is that all you’ve got?” Juan shouted, clearly unaware that this was not encouragement. “The plushies will not be silenced!”
Another tomato hit him square in the chest. Brenda tried to salvage the situation by yelling into her mic, “This is a real banger of a show, isn’t it, folks?” That only made things worse. The crowd began hurling an avalanche of tomatoes, some of which landed on me as I futilely banged on the drum kit.
Juan, ever the showman, refused to back down. “The plushies demand justice!” he cried, raising a stuffed penguin over his head like a trophy. But his rallying cry was drowned out by the roar of boos and the splat of another tomato smacking him in the face. The plush penguin fell limply to the stage, stained with tomato juice.
Finally, Brenda grabbed Juan by the lederhosen straps and hauled him offstage. “Time to retreat, Juan! These people don’t appreciate genius!”
We barely made it back to the van. Brenda and Juan, both covered in tomato remnants, sat in silence for a moment. Finally, Brenda broke the tension with a sigh. “Well, that was a real banger of a disaster.”
Juan wiped tomato pulp off his face and muttered, “They’re just not ready for polka. They’ll see. One day, they’ll see.”
I groaned and leaned back in my seat. “I don’t think anyone’s ever going to be ready for whatever this was.”
As we drove off, Brenda looked at Juan and said, “You know, I hear there’s a big plushie convention in Seattle next month. Maybe they’ll appreciate what we’re doing.”
I buried my face in my hands. This nightmare was far from over.
John Price
pro gambler/drinker
- Sep 19, 2008
- 388,697
- 32,017
SoupNazi
Keeps paying for Hangman’s OF to get promoted
- Feb 6, 2010
- 27,624
- 18,532
SoupNazi
Keeps paying for Hangman’s OF to get promoted
- Feb 6, 2010
- 27,624
- 18,532
The mood in the van was a bizarre mix of hope, delusion, and the lingering smell of tomato sauce as we rattled down the highway toward Seattle. Brenda was poring over a battered road atlas as if she were planning a military invasion. Juan sat in the passenger seat, lovingly brushing off his plushie collection, which had taken quite a beating at the polka fiasco. The plush penguin that had been doused in tomato juice was now air-drying on the dashboard.
“So, here’s the plan,” Brenda announced, her voice dripping with unwarranted confidence. “The Seattle Plushie Con is going to be our redemption arc. We’ll set up a booth, sell some lasagna, and show the world that plushies and polka are the future of entertainment.”
“You’re really bringing lasagna again?” I asked, glancing at her through the rearview mirror. “You were nearly run out of Alaska for that.”
Brenda waved me off. “People love lasagna. They just don’t realize it until they’ve had my lasagna.”
“Your lasagna gave me food poisoning,” I muttered under my breath.
Juan perked up from his plushie restoration. “This is more than just redemption. This is destiny. The plushies must be avenged after the injustices of Vancouver!” He struck a dramatic pose, holding up a stuffed walrus like it was Excalibur.
“I still don’t understand who or what wronged the plushies,” I said. “But I’m sure Seattle will love hearing all about it.”
Juan ignored my sarcasm and launched into a monologue. “Seattle is a city of innovation! A place where the misunderstood are celebrated! Where plushie enthusiasts like me can finally rise above the ridicule and take our rightful place as cultural icons.”
I sighed. “Yeah, or they’ll call security and toss us out like Vancouver did.”
Brenda gasped. “Oh! I almost forgot!” She reached into a bag at her feet and pulled out a brand-new plushie she had picked up at a gas station: a googly-eyed Sasquatch wearing a flannel shirt. “Meet Sammy the Sasquatch! He’s going to be our new mascot for the Plushie Party.”
Juan turned around and snatched it from her hands, his face lighting up like a child on Christmas morning. “Sammy, you magnificent beast. You’ll lead us to victory.”
I groaned. “Do you guys ever listen to yourselves?”
“No,” they both replied in unison.
A few hours later, we stopped at a diner just outside of Olympia. Brenda insisted we needed a “team meeting” over burgers and fries. Juan, as usual, brought a handful of plushies with him, lining them up on the table like a council of advisors.
“I think Sammy should be our centerpiece,” Brenda said, cutting into her cheeseburger. “We’ll build the booth around him, and I can sell plushie-shaped lasagna bites.”
“You’re making lasagna shaped like plushies now?” I asked, horrified.
“Of course!” Brenda grinned. “It’s a real banger of an idea.”
Juan was too busy cradling Sammy the Sasquatch to contribute much, but when he finally spoke, it was to say, “We should hold a press conference at the convention. Let the media know the Plushie Party is back and stronger than ever.”
I snorted. “You do realize the ‘media’ at this thing will probably just be some guy live-streaming in his basement, right?”
Juan glared at me. “Every movement starts small. Just you wait. The Plushie Party will grow into a force that can’t be ignored.”
I rolled my eyes but decided not to argue. It wasn’t worth the energy.
Back in the van, as the sun set and Seattle drew closer, Brenda and Juan began singing polka songs again, much to my dismay. I tried to tune them out by staring out the window, wondering how on earth I had ended up on this ridiculous road trip from hell.
As we crossed into Washington, I couldn’t help but feel a sense of foreboding. Seattle had no idea what was coming for it. And, honestly, neither did I.
“So, here’s the plan,” Brenda announced, her voice dripping with unwarranted confidence. “The Seattle Plushie Con is going to be our redemption arc. We’ll set up a booth, sell some lasagna, and show the world that plushies and polka are the future of entertainment.”
“You’re really bringing lasagna again?” I asked, glancing at her through the rearview mirror. “You were nearly run out of Alaska for that.”
Brenda waved me off. “People love lasagna. They just don’t realize it until they’ve had my lasagna.”
“Your lasagna gave me food poisoning,” I muttered under my breath.
Juan perked up from his plushie restoration. “This is more than just redemption. This is destiny. The plushies must be avenged after the injustices of Vancouver!” He struck a dramatic pose, holding up a stuffed walrus like it was Excalibur.
“I still don’t understand who or what wronged the plushies,” I said. “But I’m sure Seattle will love hearing all about it.”
Juan ignored my sarcasm and launched into a monologue. “Seattle is a city of innovation! A place where the misunderstood are celebrated! Where plushie enthusiasts like me can finally rise above the ridicule and take our rightful place as cultural icons.”
I sighed. “Yeah, or they’ll call security and toss us out like Vancouver did.”
Brenda gasped. “Oh! I almost forgot!” She reached into a bag at her feet and pulled out a brand-new plushie she had picked up at a gas station: a googly-eyed Sasquatch wearing a flannel shirt. “Meet Sammy the Sasquatch! He’s going to be our new mascot for the Plushie Party.”
Juan turned around and snatched it from her hands, his face lighting up like a child on Christmas morning. “Sammy, you magnificent beast. You’ll lead us to victory.”
I groaned. “Do you guys ever listen to yourselves?”
“No,” they both replied in unison.
A few hours later, we stopped at a diner just outside of Olympia. Brenda insisted we needed a “team meeting” over burgers and fries. Juan, as usual, brought a handful of plushies with him, lining them up on the table like a council of advisors.
“I think Sammy should be our centerpiece,” Brenda said, cutting into her cheeseburger. “We’ll build the booth around him, and I can sell plushie-shaped lasagna bites.”
“You’re making lasagna shaped like plushies now?” I asked, horrified.
“Of course!” Brenda grinned. “It’s a real banger of an idea.”
Juan was too busy cradling Sammy the Sasquatch to contribute much, but when he finally spoke, it was to say, “We should hold a press conference at the convention. Let the media know the Plushie Party is back and stronger than ever.”
I snorted. “You do realize the ‘media’ at this thing will probably just be some guy live-streaming in his basement, right?”
Juan glared at me. “Every movement starts small. Just you wait. The Plushie Party will grow into a force that can’t be ignored.”
I rolled my eyes but decided not to argue. It wasn’t worth the energy.
Back in the van, as the sun set and Seattle drew closer, Brenda and Juan began singing polka songs again, much to my dismay. I tried to tune them out by staring out the window, wondering how on earth I had ended up on this ridiculous road trip from hell.
As we crossed into Washington, I couldn’t help but feel a sense of foreboding. Seattle had no idea what was coming for it. And, honestly, neither did I.
John Price
pro gambler/drinker
- Sep 19, 2008
- 388,697
- 32,017
Title: "Price and Prissen: The TSA Chronicles"
Chapter 1: The Line That Never Ends
John Price adjusted his baseball cap, the familiar brim shadowing his sharp eyes. Though the man bore the name of a Call of Duty legend, his combat zone today was a long, winding TSA PreCheck line at the bustling Jefferson International Airport. His friend Brenda Prissen, a no-nonsense woman with sharp wit and an even sharper tongue, stood by his side, arms crossed.
"I thought this was supposed to be PreCheck," Brenda said, gesturing to the sea of humanity before them. "What’s the point of paying extra if we’re stuck in a line longer than the regular one?"
Price glanced at her, the corner of his mouth twitching. "Maybe they meant 'pre' as in preposterous. I haven’t seen a line like this since Black Friday 2011."
"You mean the time you tried to buy that 50-inch TV and almost started a fistfight?" Brenda shot back with a smirk.
"It was 60 inches," he replied with mock indignation.
They both sighed as the line inched forward, their hopes of a quick airport experience fading like the distant scent of cinnamon rolls from the food court.
---
Chapter 2: The Conveyor Belt of Doom
After 45 agonizing minutes, the pair finally reached the TSA agent checking IDs and boarding passes. Price handed his over with an exaggerated smile.
The agent, a stoic man who looked like he hadn’t smiled since the Bush administration, studied Price’s ID. “John Price?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.
"Yup. Named after the legend himself," Price replied, as if this would break the ice.
The agent was unimpressed. "Step forward."
Brenda rolled her eyes as she handed over her ID. "It’s Prissen. Not 'Prison,' as everyone seems to think."
“Move along,” the agent muttered, waving them toward the conveyor belts of doom, where bins awaited their belongings.
“This part always feels like an auction,” Price said as he shoved his laptop, shoes, belt, and watch into a bin. "Do I hear $100 for my dignity?"
“You lost that years ago,” Brenda quipped, tossing her purse into another bin.
---
Chapter 3: The Great Bin Shortage
It was here, amidst the organized chaos of security bins and conveyor belts, that Price and Brenda encountered their next trial: a bin shortage.
“Are you kidding me?” Brenda muttered. “They’ve got one job—one!—and they can’t even stock bins?”
Price leaned against the counter, watching a harried TSA worker scramble to retrieve a stack of bins from a back room. "You’d think we were asking for gold bars."
A fellow passenger, a harried mother with twin toddlers, glared at them. “Some of us are in a hurry,” she snapped.
“Oh, sorry, I’ll just tell the bin gods to speed it up,” Brenda shot back, unbothered.
Price shook his head. “Careful, Brenda. You’ll end up on some no-fly list."
“I’d wear that like a badge of honor,” she replied.
---
Chapter 4: The Body Scanner Ballet
At long last, they reached the body scanner. Brenda stepped in first, raising her arms like a reluctant performer in a TSA ballet. The machine whirred ominously, and the TSA agent squinted at the screen.
“Ma’am, do you have anything in your pockets?”
Brenda sighed dramatically and pulled out a crumpled receipt. “Happy now?”
“Step aside for a pat-down.”
Price snickered as Brenda shot him a glare. “Don’t even think about it,” she warned as she was escorted to the side.
When it was Price’s turn, he stepped in confidently, only to have the machine beep furiously.
“Sir, do you have anything metallic on you?”
"Just my pride," he said with a grin, but the TSA agent wasn’t amused.
Moments later, he too was led to the pat-down area.
---
Chapter 5: The Sock Scandal
By the time Price and Brenda reunited on the other side of security, they were both visibly irritated. Brenda was muttering under her breath about the indignity of being frisked, while Price was struggling to put his shoes back on.
“Do they ever vacuum this carpet?” Brenda asked, examining her socks. “I think I just stepped in gum.”
“Could be worse,” Price replied, wiggling his toes in his own mismatched socks. “I’m pretty sure mine are radioactive now.”
As they gathered their belongings, Brenda glanced at her watch. “Our flight boards in fifteen minutes. Think we have time to grab a coffee?”
Price laughed dryly. “At this rate, we’re lucky if we make it to the gate before they start calling our names over the loudspeaker.”
They trudged toward the nearest directory, their spirits battered but their camaraderie intact.
“Next time,” Brenda said, “we’re driving.”
“Deal,” Price replied. “As long as you’re not navigating.”
And with that, they disappeared into the la
byrinth of the terminal, ready to face whatever new absurdities awaited them.
---
To be continued...
Chapter 1: The Line That Never Ends
John Price adjusted his baseball cap, the familiar brim shadowing his sharp eyes. Though the man bore the name of a Call of Duty legend, his combat zone today was a long, winding TSA PreCheck line at the bustling Jefferson International Airport. His friend Brenda Prissen, a no-nonsense woman with sharp wit and an even sharper tongue, stood by his side, arms crossed.
"I thought this was supposed to be PreCheck," Brenda said, gesturing to the sea of humanity before them. "What’s the point of paying extra if we’re stuck in a line longer than the regular one?"
Price glanced at her, the corner of his mouth twitching. "Maybe they meant 'pre' as in preposterous. I haven’t seen a line like this since Black Friday 2011."
"You mean the time you tried to buy that 50-inch TV and almost started a fistfight?" Brenda shot back with a smirk.
"It was 60 inches," he replied with mock indignation.
They both sighed as the line inched forward, their hopes of a quick airport experience fading like the distant scent of cinnamon rolls from the food court.
---
Chapter 2: The Conveyor Belt of Doom
After 45 agonizing minutes, the pair finally reached the TSA agent checking IDs and boarding passes. Price handed his over with an exaggerated smile.
The agent, a stoic man who looked like he hadn’t smiled since the Bush administration, studied Price’s ID. “John Price?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.
"Yup. Named after the legend himself," Price replied, as if this would break the ice.
The agent was unimpressed. "Step forward."
Brenda rolled her eyes as she handed over her ID. "It’s Prissen. Not 'Prison,' as everyone seems to think."
“Move along,” the agent muttered, waving them toward the conveyor belts of doom, where bins awaited their belongings.
“This part always feels like an auction,” Price said as he shoved his laptop, shoes, belt, and watch into a bin. "Do I hear $100 for my dignity?"
“You lost that years ago,” Brenda quipped, tossing her purse into another bin.
---
Chapter 3: The Great Bin Shortage
It was here, amidst the organized chaos of security bins and conveyor belts, that Price and Brenda encountered their next trial: a bin shortage.
“Are you kidding me?” Brenda muttered. “They’ve got one job—one!—and they can’t even stock bins?”
Price leaned against the counter, watching a harried TSA worker scramble to retrieve a stack of bins from a back room. "You’d think we were asking for gold bars."
A fellow passenger, a harried mother with twin toddlers, glared at them. “Some of us are in a hurry,” she snapped.
“Oh, sorry, I’ll just tell the bin gods to speed it up,” Brenda shot back, unbothered.
Price shook his head. “Careful, Brenda. You’ll end up on some no-fly list."
“I’d wear that like a badge of honor,” she replied.
---
Chapter 4: The Body Scanner Ballet
At long last, they reached the body scanner. Brenda stepped in first, raising her arms like a reluctant performer in a TSA ballet. The machine whirred ominously, and the TSA agent squinted at the screen.
“Ma’am, do you have anything in your pockets?”
Brenda sighed dramatically and pulled out a crumpled receipt. “Happy now?”
“Step aside for a pat-down.”
Price snickered as Brenda shot him a glare. “Don’t even think about it,” she warned as she was escorted to the side.
When it was Price’s turn, he stepped in confidently, only to have the machine beep furiously.
“Sir, do you have anything metallic on you?”
"Just my pride," he said with a grin, but the TSA agent wasn’t amused.
Moments later, he too was led to the pat-down area.
---
Chapter 5: The Sock Scandal
By the time Price and Brenda reunited on the other side of security, they were both visibly irritated. Brenda was muttering under her breath about the indignity of being frisked, while Price was struggling to put his shoes back on.
“Do they ever vacuum this carpet?” Brenda asked, examining her socks. “I think I just stepped in gum.”
“Could be worse,” Price replied, wiggling his toes in his own mismatched socks. “I’m pretty sure mine are radioactive now.”
As they gathered their belongings, Brenda glanced at her watch. “Our flight boards in fifteen minutes. Think we have time to grab a coffee?”
Price laughed dryly. “At this rate, we’re lucky if we make it to the gate before they start calling our names over the loudspeaker.”
They trudged toward the nearest directory, their spirits battered but their camaraderie intact.
“Next time,” Brenda said, “we’re driving.”
“Deal,” Price replied. “As long as you’re not navigating.”
And with that, they disappeared into the la
byrinth of the terminal, ready to face whatever new absurdities awaited them.
---
To be continued...
SoupNazi
Keeps paying for Hangman’s OF to get promoted
- Feb 6, 2010
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The next morning, we rolled into Seattle, with Brenda and Juan buzzing with excitement. They had somehow decided that the Space Needle, the crown jewel of the Emerald City, was the perfect place to debut their “Space Needle Plushie Collection.” Juan had already begun loudly brainstorming slogans like, “Take a piece of the sky home with you!” while Brenda debated what kind of lasagna would pair best with such a product.
By noon, we had parked the van near the Space Needle. Brenda and Juan set up a makeshift stand, complete with a handwritten sign that read: “Plushies from Beyond the Stratosphere – Get Yours Before They’re Out of This World!” The plushies themselves were…questionable. Brenda had hand-sewn little replicas of the Space Needle with googly eyes and floppy felt arms. Some had tiny chef hats, which she insisted were a nod to her lasagna business.
“People are going to love this,” Brenda said, adjusting her sunglasses. She was wearing a metallic silver jumpsuit she had thrifted, claiming it was her “space attire.”
“Or they’ll call security,” I muttered, sitting on a bench nearby, trying to keep a safe distance from the madness.
The first hour was a predictable disaster. Tourists stopped by the booth, mostly out of morbid curiosity, but few bought anything. One kid burst into tears at the sight of the googly-eyed plush Space Needle, which he declared was “scary.” Brenda tried to calm him by offering him a lasagna sample, but the kid’s mom pulled him away before she could.
Then, as if summoned by fate, Kelsey Grammer—yes, Kelsey Grammer of Frasier fame—strolled into the plaza with a small entourage. He was wearing a tailored suit and looked every bit the refined celebrity.
“Oh my God!” Juan gasped, clutching a Space Needle plushie like it was a lifeline. “It’s Frasier! Frasier Crane! The greatest sitcom star of all time!”
“Juan, calm down,” I said, though I knew it was futile.
“Are you kidding me? This is destiny!” Juan hissed. “If Frasier endorses the Space Needle plushies, we’ll be famous!”
Before I could stop him, Juan darted across the plaza, nearly tripping over a toddler in his excitement. “Mr. Grammer! Mr. Grammer!” he shouted, waving the plushie in the air like a lunatic.
Kelsey Grammer paused, clearly startled, but graciously smiled as Juan barreled toward him.
“Hello, sir,” Juan panted, thrusting the plushie into Kelsey’s hands. “I’m a huge fan. Huge. I’ve seen every episode of Frasier at least five times. And don’t even get me started on Cheers. Genius. Absolute genius.”
Kelsey chuckled politely. “Well, thank you. That’s very kind.”
“I have something that will change your life,” Juan said, his voice trembling with emotion. “This!” He gestured dramatically to the plushie in Kelsey’s hands. “It’s a Space Needle plushie. Hand-sewn. Limited edition. A true collector’s item.”
Kelsey inspected the plushie, his smile becoming increasingly strained. “Ah, very…creative.”
“It’s not just a plushie,” Juan continued, oblivious to the actor’s discomfort. “It’s a symbol. A beacon. A…uh…totem of hope and ingenuity!”
Brenda, sensing an opportunity, sauntered over with a lasagna sample on a paper plate. “And if you love the plushie, wait until you try my Space Needle Lasagna Bites,” she said, holding the plate out to him.
Kelsey raised an eyebrow. “Lasagna…bites?”
“They’re like regular lasagna, but portable!” Brenda said, as if she’d just invented the concept.
“Ah, I think I’ll pass,” Kelsey said, handing the plushie back to Juan. “But best of luck with your…endeavors.”
Juan looked crestfallen as Kelsey walked away, though Brenda tried to salvage the situation. “Well, at least he didn’t call us lunatics,” she said.
“Not yet,” I muttered, watching as Kelsey whispered something to one of his entourage, who promptly called over a security guard.
Sure enough, minutes later, a Space Needle employee approached us. “Excuse me, but you can’t set up a stand here without a permit.”
Brenda tried to argue, claiming the plushies were “artistic expression,” but it was no use. We were promptly escorted off the plaza, Juan clutching his plushies and muttering, “Frasier would’ve loved them if he’d just given them a chance.”
As we piled back into the van, I couldn’t help but laugh. “Well, that went about as well as expected.”
Brenda, ever the optimist, leaned back in her seat and declared, “It was still a real banger of a day.”
Juan nodded solemnly. “The plushies must live to fight another day.”
And with that, we hit the road again, the Space Needle shrinking in the rearview mirror as we plotted our next move.
By noon, we had parked the van near the Space Needle. Brenda and Juan set up a makeshift stand, complete with a handwritten sign that read: “Plushies from Beyond the Stratosphere – Get Yours Before They’re Out of This World!” The plushies themselves were…questionable. Brenda had hand-sewn little replicas of the Space Needle with googly eyes and floppy felt arms. Some had tiny chef hats, which she insisted were a nod to her lasagna business.
“People are going to love this,” Brenda said, adjusting her sunglasses. She was wearing a metallic silver jumpsuit she had thrifted, claiming it was her “space attire.”
“Or they’ll call security,” I muttered, sitting on a bench nearby, trying to keep a safe distance from the madness.
The first hour was a predictable disaster. Tourists stopped by the booth, mostly out of morbid curiosity, but few bought anything. One kid burst into tears at the sight of the googly-eyed plush Space Needle, which he declared was “scary.” Brenda tried to calm him by offering him a lasagna sample, but the kid’s mom pulled him away before she could.
Then, as if summoned by fate, Kelsey Grammer—yes, Kelsey Grammer of Frasier fame—strolled into the plaza with a small entourage. He was wearing a tailored suit and looked every bit the refined celebrity.
“Oh my God!” Juan gasped, clutching a Space Needle plushie like it was a lifeline. “It’s Frasier! Frasier Crane! The greatest sitcom star of all time!”
“Juan, calm down,” I said, though I knew it was futile.
“Are you kidding me? This is destiny!” Juan hissed. “If Frasier endorses the Space Needle plushies, we’ll be famous!”
Before I could stop him, Juan darted across the plaza, nearly tripping over a toddler in his excitement. “Mr. Grammer! Mr. Grammer!” he shouted, waving the plushie in the air like a lunatic.
Kelsey Grammer paused, clearly startled, but graciously smiled as Juan barreled toward him.
“Hello, sir,” Juan panted, thrusting the plushie into Kelsey’s hands. “I’m a huge fan. Huge. I’ve seen every episode of Frasier at least five times. And don’t even get me started on Cheers. Genius. Absolute genius.”
Kelsey chuckled politely. “Well, thank you. That’s very kind.”
“I have something that will change your life,” Juan said, his voice trembling with emotion. “This!” He gestured dramatically to the plushie in Kelsey’s hands. “It’s a Space Needle plushie. Hand-sewn. Limited edition. A true collector’s item.”
Kelsey inspected the plushie, his smile becoming increasingly strained. “Ah, very…creative.”
“It’s not just a plushie,” Juan continued, oblivious to the actor’s discomfort. “It’s a symbol. A beacon. A…uh…totem of hope and ingenuity!”
Brenda, sensing an opportunity, sauntered over with a lasagna sample on a paper plate. “And if you love the plushie, wait until you try my Space Needle Lasagna Bites,” she said, holding the plate out to him.
Kelsey raised an eyebrow. “Lasagna…bites?”
“They’re like regular lasagna, but portable!” Brenda said, as if she’d just invented the concept.
“Ah, I think I’ll pass,” Kelsey said, handing the plushie back to Juan. “But best of luck with your…endeavors.”
Juan looked crestfallen as Kelsey walked away, though Brenda tried to salvage the situation. “Well, at least he didn’t call us lunatics,” she said.
“Not yet,” I muttered, watching as Kelsey whispered something to one of his entourage, who promptly called over a security guard.
Sure enough, minutes later, a Space Needle employee approached us. “Excuse me, but you can’t set up a stand here without a permit.”
Brenda tried to argue, claiming the plushies were “artistic expression,” but it was no use. We were promptly escorted off the plaza, Juan clutching his plushies and muttering, “Frasier would’ve loved them if he’d just given them a chance.”
As we piled back into the van, I couldn’t help but laugh. “Well, that went about as well as expected.”
Brenda, ever the optimist, leaned back in her seat and declared, “It was still a real banger of a day.”
Juan nodded solemnly. “The plushies must live to fight another day.”
And with that, we hit the road again, the Space Needle shrinking in the rearview mirror as we plotted our next move.
John Price
pro gambler/drinker
- Sep 19, 2008
- 388,697
- 32,017
John Price
pro gambler/drinker
- Sep 19, 2008
- 388,697
- 32,017
Chapter 6: The Lounge Mirage
Brenda’s eyes lit up as they approached the airport lounge, the glowing sign promising sanctuary: free Wi-Fi, comfortable chairs, and, most importantly, food.
“Finally,” she said. “A silver lining in this disaster of a trip.”
Price swiped the lounge card at the entrance with the confidence of a man about to conquer paradise. The door beeped, granting them access, and they stepped into the promised land—or so they thought.
The lounge was chaos. The usual calm was replaced by travelers scouring the buffet like vultures. The coffee machine hissed, overworked and nearly empty. A lone fruit basket sat at the buffet, holding two sad-looking bananas and an apple with a mysterious dent.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Brenda muttered, surveying the devastation. “This isn’t a lounge. It’s a crime scene.”
Price grabbed a plate and stared at the remains of what might have been pasta. “What do you think this was?”
Brenda sniffed it. “Regret.”
They settled for the bananas, though Brenda argued over who got the less bruised one. Price conceded only after she threatened to report him for “banana hoarding.”
---
Chapter 7: The Coffee Catastrophe
Their next target was the coffee station. Price filled a cup, but as he reached for the milk dispenser, it sputtered weakly, spitting out watery streaks.
“Looks like we’re having black coffee,” Price said, handing Brenda a cup.
She took one sip and grimaced. “This tastes like betrayal. Did they filter this through a gym sock?”
“Could be worse,” Price replied, sipping his own with a wince. “Could be decaf.”
The two sat in mismatched armchairs, chewing their bruised bananas and drinking what passed for coffee. Around them, travelers jostled for seats, charging ports, and the dwindling snack supply.
“This is not what I paid for,” Brenda said, staring daggers at a man who had just snagged the last bag of pretzels.
Price leaned back, looking oddly serene. “Think of it as a character-building exercise.”
“Yeah? My character’s considering arson,” she muttered.
---
Chapter 8: The Boarding Group Blues
After enduring the lounge for as long as they could stomach, the pair decided to cut their losses and head to the gate. When they arrived, the boarding area was packed.
A voice crackled over the intercom. “We will now begin boarding for flight 857 to Denver. First-class passengers and Group 1 may now board.”
Brenda glanced at their boarding passes and groaned. “Group 5? Are you serious?”
Price shrugged. “They say the best things come to those who wait.”
Brenda shot him a look. “If you try to spin this into a life lesson, I will leave you here.”
As Groups 2, 3, and 4 were called, the crowd thinned, but the line for Group 5 seemed to grow. A man with an oversized neck pillow cut in front of them, and Brenda nearly lost it.
“Excuse me,” she said, tapping him on the shoulder. “The back of the line is over there.”
The man didn’t even turn around.
“Oh, we’re doing this now?” Brenda muttered, her voice rising. “You think you’re special because you’ve got a travel pillow? Newsflash: we all suffer equally in coach!”
Price put a hand on her shoulder. “Easy, Brenda. Save your energy for the middle seat battle.”
---
Chapter 9: The Gate of Despair
As Group 5 was finally called, Price and Brenda shuffled forward with the rest of the stragglers.
“This feels like the Titanic’s lifeboat drill,” Price remarked.
“I just want to sit down and pretend this day didn’t happen,” Brenda said. “Is that too much to ask?”
When they reached the gate agent, Price handed over his boarding pass. It beeped. The agent frowned.
“Sir, you’ve been reassigned to a different seat.”
Price raised an eyebrow. “Reassigned? Why?”
“Maintenance issues with the original seat.”
Brenda leaned over. “If you get bumped to first class, I’m never speaking to you again.”
“14B,” the agent said, handing Price a new pass.
Brenda cackled. “Middle seat! Karma’s real, baby!”
---
Chapter 10: The Group 5 Struggle
By the time they boarded, the overhead bins were full, leaving Price and Brenda to cram their carry-ons under the seats. Brenda muttered curses under her breath as she contorted herself into her seat by the window.
Price slid into his middle seat, sandwiched between Brenda and a man already asleep and snoring loudly.
“This is fine,” Price said, clearly lying.
Brenda opened her mouth to respond, but before she could, a flight attendant appeared. “Ladies and gentlemen, we apologize for the delay. We’ll begin beverage service shortly.”
Brenda shook her head. “If they’re out of pretzels, I swear I’m storming the cockpit.”
Price chuckled. “At least we’re finally on the plane.”
“Yeah,” Brenda said, staring out the window. “Only took two hours, a bruised banana, and a front-row seat to human misery.”
“And the day’s not even over yet,” Price added with a grin.
As the plane taxied to the runway
, they both settled in, bracing for whatever new absurdities awaited them at 30,000 feet.
---
To be continued...
Brenda’s eyes lit up as they approached the airport lounge, the glowing sign promising sanctuary: free Wi-Fi, comfortable chairs, and, most importantly, food.
“Finally,” she said. “A silver lining in this disaster of a trip.”
Price swiped the lounge card at the entrance with the confidence of a man about to conquer paradise. The door beeped, granting them access, and they stepped into the promised land—or so they thought.
The lounge was chaos. The usual calm was replaced by travelers scouring the buffet like vultures. The coffee machine hissed, overworked and nearly empty. A lone fruit basket sat at the buffet, holding two sad-looking bananas and an apple with a mysterious dent.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Brenda muttered, surveying the devastation. “This isn’t a lounge. It’s a crime scene.”
Price grabbed a plate and stared at the remains of what might have been pasta. “What do you think this was?”
Brenda sniffed it. “Regret.”
They settled for the bananas, though Brenda argued over who got the less bruised one. Price conceded only after she threatened to report him for “banana hoarding.”
---
Chapter 7: The Coffee Catastrophe
Their next target was the coffee station. Price filled a cup, but as he reached for the milk dispenser, it sputtered weakly, spitting out watery streaks.
“Looks like we’re having black coffee,” Price said, handing Brenda a cup.
She took one sip and grimaced. “This tastes like betrayal. Did they filter this through a gym sock?”
“Could be worse,” Price replied, sipping his own with a wince. “Could be decaf.”
The two sat in mismatched armchairs, chewing their bruised bananas and drinking what passed for coffee. Around them, travelers jostled for seats, charging ports, and the dwindling snack supply.
“This is not what I paid for,” Brenda said, staring daggers at a man who had just snagged the last bag of pretzels.
Price leaned back, looking oddly serene. “Think of it as a character-building exercise.”
“Yeah? My character’s considering arson,” she muttered.
---
Chapter 8: The Boarding Group Blues
After enduring the lounge for as long as they could stomach, the pair decided to cut their losses and head to the gate. When they arrived, the boarding area was packed.
A voice crackled over the intercom. “We will now begin boarding for flight 857 to Denver. First-class passengers and Group 1 may now board.”
Brenda glanced at their boarding passes and groaned. “Group 5? Are you serious?”
Price shrugged. “They say the best things come to those who wait.”
Brenda shot him a look. “If you try to spin this into a life lesson, I will leave you here.”
As Groups 2, 3, and 4 were called, the crowd thinned, but the line for Group 5 seemed to grow. A man with an oversized neck pillow cut in front of them, and Brenda nearly lost it.
“Excuse me,” she said, tapping him on the shoulder. “The back of the line is over there.”
The man didn’t even turn around.
“Oh, we’re doing this now?” Brenda muttered, her voice rising. “You think you’re special because you’ve got a travel pillow? Newsflash: we all suffer equally in coach!”
Price put a hand on her shoulder. “Easy, Brenda. Save your energy for the middle seat battle.”
---
Chapter 9: The Gate of Despair
As Group 5 was finally called, Price and Brenda shuffled forward with the rest of the stragglers.
“This feels like the Titanic’s lifeboat drill,” Price remarked.
“I just want to sit down and pretend this day didn’t happen,” Brenda said. “Is that too much to ask?”
When they reached the gate agent, Price handed over his boarding pass. It beeped. The agent frowned.
“Sir, you’ve been reassigned to a different seat.”
Price raised an eyebrow. “Reassigned? Why?”
“Maintenance issues with the original seat.”
Brenda leaned over. “If you get bumped to first class, I’m never speaking to you again.”
“14B,” the agent said, handing Price a new pass.
Brenda cackled. “Middle seat! Karma’s real, baby!”
---
Chapter 10: The Group 5 Struggle
By the time they boarded, the overhead bins were full, leaving Price and Brenda to cram their carry-ons under the seats. Brenda muttered curses under her breath as she contorted herself into her seat by the window.
Price slid into his middle seat, sandwiched between Brenda and a man already asleep and snoring loudly.
“This is fine,” Price said, clearly lying.
Brenda opened her mouth to respond, but before she could, a flight attendant appeared. “Ladies and gentlemen, we apologize for the delay. We’ll begin beverage service shortly.”
Brenda shook her head. “If they’re out of pretzels, I swear I’m storming the cockpit.”
Price chuckled. “At least we’re finally on the plane.”
“Yeah,” Brenda said, staring out the window. “Only took two hours, a bruised banana, and a front-row seat to human misery.”
“And the day’s not even over yet,” Price added with a grin.
As the plane taxied to the runway
, they both settled in, bracing for whatever new absurdities awaited them at 30,000 feet.
---
To be continued...
John Price
pro gambler/drinker
- Sep 19, 2008
- 388,697
- 32,017
John Price
pro gambler/drinker
- Sep 19, 2008
- 388,697
- 32,017
I like my beat down low and my top let back
Can see me ridin' twenty-fours with a chopper in the back
Ya like ya Kenwood hot and ya top let back
If ya rims sit high and ya windows pitch black
Can see me ridin' twenty-fours with a chopper in the back
Ya like ya Kenwood hot and ya top let back
If ya rims sit high and ya windows pitch black
End of Line
Sic Semper Tyrannis
- Mar 20, 2009
- 29,233
- 6,882
PanthersPens62
Paul & Stanley
And the same to you !!!!!
John Price
pro gambler/drinker
- Sep 19, 2008
- 388,697
- 32,017
Djokovic booed after retiring injured in semifinals
A left leg injury forced Novak Djokovic to retire from his Australian Open semifinal match against Alexander Zverev, leading fans to boo him as he left the court.
John Price
pro gambler/drinker
- Sep 19, 2008
- 388,697
- 32,017
"The very first thing I want to say is, please, guys, don't boo a player when he goes out with injury," Zverev said. "I know that everybody paid for tickets and wants to see hopefully a five-set match. He has won this tournament with an abdominal tear, won this tournament with a hamstring injury. So please show some respect."
respect
when Djokovic treats his staff and assistants like shit, the nerve to demand "respect"
respect
when Djokovic treats his staff and assistants like shit, the nerve to demand "respect"
