Useless Thread MM: TSA Precheck Appreciation Thread

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Did you also meddle with Wisconsin to get this NIL player too :rolleyes:

But keep defending how this practice is allowed

You are the ONLY person that is defending Wisky. :shakehead

And you know darned well my choosing that for "word of the day" had NOTHING to do with that situation, but of course you don't want to acknowledge the reason I chose it.
 
You are the ONLY person that is defending Wisky. :shakehead

And you know darned well my choosing that for "word of the day" had NOTHING to do with that situation, but of course you don't want to acknowledge the reason I chose it.
I'm not though the Big Ten stands behind their accusation.

Getting transfers in the portal is fine but do it cleanly. Why are you all always mixed up in dirty business?
 
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Reactions: PanthersPens62

always the 10% jackasses that make yinz fanbase look bad harassing coaches and making them feel bad

Again preface by saying Day is a D and I don't like him but fine that people can get off his back for once and let him do his job. Holy shit.
There is a % of fans who feel that beating TTUN is more important than winning a Natty. Odd but true and they will continue to go after him until he proves he can beat TTUN. :nod:

I'm not though the Big Ten stands behind their accusation.

Getting transfers in the portal is fine but do it cleanly. Why are you all always mixed up in dirty business?
Again, there is NOTHING "dirty" about what we are doing........Wisky messed up.....they have a severe case of FAFO.
 
I like how there were 3 reactions to him patting himself on the back for those titles, and one of them was a :( from me lol
 
The drive to Vegas felt like the buildup to a bad sitcom. Juan was bouncing in the backseat, clutching a worn plushie of Elvis that he claimed would be his "lucky charm." Brenda was humming "Viva Las Vegas" as if she had already conquered the city. Meanwhile, I stared out the window, mentally preparing myself for the chaos that awaited us.

As we rolled into the bright lights of the Strip, Brenda screeched to a stop in front of a giant neon cowboy. “We made it, boys!” she declared, slamming the van into park. “Vegas is about to meet its plushie overlords.”

“You sure this is a good idea?” I asked. “The IRS is probably already setting up a sting operation.”

“Pshh,” Brenda said, waving a dismissive hand. “Hargrave’s probably still stuck in Seattle, trying to decipher that 100-year-old law. Vegas is a fresh start. Plushie paradise!”

Juan pointed out the window, his eyes wide. “Look! It’s Wayne Newton!”

I turned to see none other than the King of Vegas himself stepping out of a sleek black limousine, flanked by an entourage. His shiny, impeccably coiffed hair gleamed under the Strip’s neon glow.

Brenda slammed her door open, nearly knocking over a passing tourist, and marched straight toward him. “Mr. Newton!” she shouted, waving her arms like she was hailing a taxi. “Over here!”

Wayne Newton paused, his entourage visibly alarmed. “Can I help you?” he asked, his voice smooth and slightly wary.

Brenda thrust out her hand, which he hesitated to shake. “Big fan. Big fan. My name’s Brenda, and this here’s my son Juan. We just arrived in Vegas to revolutionize the plushie industry, and we’d like to offer you the chance to invest.”

Juan stepped forward, holding up the Elvis plushie. “This could be yours for just $19.99,” he said, grinning.

Wayne Newton blinked, his expression a mix of confusion and mild horror. “Plushies? Are you serious?”

“Dead serious,” Brenda said, her voice dripping with confidence. “We’re opening the first-ever plushie casino. Imagine it, Mr. Newton: slot machines spitting out plushies, plushie roulette wheels, plushie poker chips—an empire of soft, huggable luxury!”

Wayne Newton stared at her for a long moment before a bemused smile crept onto his face. “I’ve seen a lot of wild things in this town,” he said, “but this might just take the cake.”

“Exactly!” Brenda exclaimed. “And as the King of Vegas, you’d be the perfect face for our plushie palace.”

“Let me get this straight,” Newton said, crossing his arms. “You want me to invest in a casino where grown adults gamble for...stuffed animals?”

“Yes!” Juan said eagerly. “But not just any stuffed animals. Limited edition, premium plushies.”

Newton chuckled, shaking his head. “I’ve got to hand it to you, lady, you’ve got guts.”

“So you’re in?” Brenda asked, her eyes shining with hope.

“No,” Newton said, his smile widening. “But I’ll give you credit for entertaining me tonight. Good luck.”

He turned and walked away, his entourage chuckling as they followed him. Brenda watched him go, her hands on her hips.

“Well, that didn’t go as planned,” she muttered.

“Maybe he’s just not a plushie guy,” Juan said. “Not everyone gets it.”

I groaned. “Can we please just get a hotel room and regroup before you embarrass us in front of any more celebrities?”

Brenda sighed. “Fine. But mark my words, this isn’t over. Vegas will bow to the plushie empire. It’s just a matter of time.”

As we drove off to find a cheap motel, I couldn’t help but feel like we were already one wrong move away from being banned from the city entirely.
 
The next morning, Juan was practically bouncing out of his seat in the diner as he inhaled a plate of pancakes shaped like dice. “Vegas feels magical,” he declared, syrup dribbling down his chin. “I can feel my destiny taking shape.”

“Your destiny better involve washing syrup off your shirt,” I muttered, already regretting ordering coffee instead of something stronger. Brenda, meanwhile, was furiously sketching blueprints for the plushie casino on the back of a napkin. Every few minutes, she would mutter something like “plushie blackjack” or “the Hug-A-Slot jackpot” while Juan nodded eagerly.

“Forget Wayne Newton,” Brenda said, pointing her pen at Juan. “We need someone bigger. Someone relevant. Someone who screams ‘Vegas glitz.’”

“Like Elvis?” Juan asked, clutching his Elvis plushie.

“No,” Brenda snapped. “Elvis is dead, Juan. I’m talking about someone who still draws a crowd.”

“Someone like...Britney Spears?” I joked.

Brenda froze, her eyes lighting up like a slot machine hitting the jackpot. “YES! Britney! She’s perfect!”

Before I could argue that Britney Spears was not likely to align her brand with a plushie casino, Brenda was already out of her seat, waving down the waitress for directions to where Britney might be found. “We’re going to make this happen,” she declared. “Today.”


That afternoon, the trio (with me reluctantly in tow) staked out a luxury hotel where Britney was rumored to be staying. Brenda had somehow procured an enormous plushie in the shape of a giant heart, complete with sequins and glitter. She instructed Juan to hold it, reasoning that “no one can resist a giant plush heart.”

As we loitered near the hotel’s entrance, Brenda hissed, “There she is!” Sure enough, Britney Spears stepped out of the lobby, surrounded by bodyguards and flashing cameras. She looked effortlessly glamorous, and Juan immediately started hyperventilating.

“Go!” Brenda whispered, shoving the giant plushie into Juan’s arms. “Offer her the heart and tell her it’s from the Plushie Party!”

Juan stumbled forward, his face as red as the heart he was holding. “Ms. Spears!” he called, his voice cracking. “This is for you!”

Britney paused, tilting her head curiously as Juan shuffled closer, looking like a sweaty, oversized Cupid. Her bodyguards moved to block him, but Britney waved them off, laughing softly. “That’s...really sweet,” she said, taking the plushie. “What’s it for?”

“It’s from me!” Juan blurted. “Well, from us. We’re starting a plushie casino, and we think you’re amazing, and also you’re the Queen of Pop, and—”

Before he could finish, Britney leaned in and kissed him lightly on the cheek. Juan immediately froze, his eyes widening before he crumpled to the ground in a heap.

“Is he okay?” Britney asked, startled.

“Oh, he’s fine,” Brenda said, waving dismissively. “He’s just never been kissed by a woman before.”

“I’m gonna let that one slide,” Britney said with a laugh before walking off with the plushie.

Meanwhile, Juan lay sprawled on the sidewalk, a dopey grin on his face. “Best...day...ever,” he murmured.


Later that evening, Brenda was on fire with plans for the plushie casino. “We’ll dedicate the heart plushie to Britney in the entrance!” she announced as we sat in a cheap hotel room. “It’ll be the centerpiece of the entire operation. ‘Britney’s Plushie Paradise!’ That’s the name! And we’ll have Britney perform at the grand opening. It’s genius!”

Juan, still in a daze, simply nodded. “Anything Britney wants,” he sighed dreamily.

I groaned. “You do realize Britney Spears has no idea who you are and is not going to perform at your weird plushie casino, right?”

Brenda smirked. “Not yet. But just you wait. Vegas loves an underdog, and we’re about to prove everyone wrong. This plushie empire is happening.”

As I sat back, I couldn’t decide whether to laugh or start packing my bags. Something told me that Vegas hadn’t seen the last of the Plushie Party yet.
 
It all started with Brenda’s wild declaration at breakfast: “Who needs the Strip anyway? The real money is in off-Strip charm. We’re gonna make this plushie casino the next big thing!” She slammed down her coffee mug for emphasis, almost cracking the diner table.

Juan, still staring off into space with a goofy grin (no doubt reliving his Britney Spears moment), nodded enthusiastically. “Yeah! Off-Strip charm! And plushies! And maybe Britney will come to the grand opening!”

I sighed, already regretting my decision to stick around. “You know casinos require gaming licenses, right?”

Brenda waved me off like I was a pesky mosquito. “Licenses are for bureaucrats and cowards. This is about the vision, not the paperwork.”


That afternoon, we found ourselves standing in front of a dilapidated shack at the edge of the desert. A faded sign hung above the door, barely legible: “Lucky Lizard Bingo Hall.” The “for lease” sign in the window was the only thing newer than 1975.

“This is it!” Brenda declared, throwing her arms wide. “The future home of the Plushie Paradise Casino!”

Juan squinted at the shack. “It’s kinda...small.”

Brenda ignored him, already scribbling plans in her notebook. “We’ll clean it up, add some twinkly lights, set up a few plushie slot machines...maybe throw in a plushie roulette table for the high rollers. It’ll be perfect.”


Over the next week, Brenda and Juan transformed the Lucky Lizard shack into what they believed was Vegas’ next iconic casino. String lights dangled precariously from the roof, a hand-painted “Plushie Paradise” sign replaced the old bingo hall one, and inside, there were exactly four slot machines (decorated with plushies, of course), a roulette table made of cardboard, and a suspiciously wobbly bar stocked with off-brand sodas.

The pièce de résistance? The Britney Spears plushie, enshrined in a glass case with a handwritten plaque that read: “Our Inspiration: Queen of Pop, Queen of Plush.”

“We’re open for business!” Brenda proclaimed proudly, standing behind the bar in a sparkly vest she’d found at a thrift store.


Unfortunately, it didn’t take long for things to go sideways.

The first few customers who stumbled in—likely lured by the glowing neon “CASINO” sign Brenda had splurged on—looked around in confusion. “Is this a casino or a daycare?” one guy muttered, eyeing the shelves of plushies.

“It’s both!” Brenda said, shoving a roll of quarters at him. “Now go win yourself a plushie jackpot!”

But the real trouble started on day three, when a sharp-dressed man with a clipboard walked in. He didn’t bother with the slot machines or the plushie poker table; instead, he marched straight up to the bar where Brenda was serving a questionable lasagna special.

“You got a gaming license for this place?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

Brenda laughed nervously. “Oh, who needs a license when you’ve got a dream?”

The man didn’t laugh. “Ma’am, I’m with the Nevada Gaming Control Board. This establishment is operating illegally.”

Juan, who had been tinkering with the plushie claw machine in the corner, panicked. “What? But we’ve only been open for three days!”

“Doesn’t matter,” the man said flatly. “You can’t run a casino without a license. And I’m pretty sure that cardboard roulette wheel violates at least five safety codes.”


By the time the Gaming Control Board was done with us, the Plushie Paradise Casino was shuttered, the neon sign was confiscated, and Brenda was fuming. “This is a conspiracy!” she yelled as we packed up the plushies. “The Strip doesn’t want us to succeed! It’s the big casinos trying to crush the little guy!”

“I think it’s more about the whole ‘illegal gambling’ thing,” I pointed out, but Brenda wasn’t listening.

As we loaded the last of the plushies into the van, Juan sighed. “I guess we’re not cut out for the casino business.”

“Don’t you dare give up on the dream!” Brenda snapped, clutching the Britney plushie to her chest. “This isn’t the end. It’s just the beginning. The Plushie Party will rise again!”

I groaned. Somehow, I knew this was far from the last of Brenda’s “brilliant” schemes. And I was almost certain it would only get weirder from here.
 
The next chapter in our plushie saga began exactly as weirdly as you’d expect: with Brenda hosting an impromptu séance in the van to summon “the spirit of Vegas hustle” while we sped toward the outskirts of town. Juan sat cross-legged on the van floor, cradling the Britney plushie like it was a sacred relic, while I stared out the window, wondering if it was too late to hitchhike back to something resembling normalcy.

Brenda had a candle in one hand and a lasagna spatula in the other, which she waved around dramatically. “Spirits of the slot machines, ghosts of the high rollers, guide us to our next plushie empire!”

Juan chimed in. “And Britney, if you’re listening, send us your blessing!”

“Please stop invoking Britney Spears,” I muttered. “She’s alive.”

Suddenly, the van’s engine sputtered, then died completely. Brenda slammed on the brakes, and we rolled to a stop in the middle of nowhere—just a dusty road, a few tumbleweeds, and what appeared to be a convenience store shaped like a giant cowboy hat in the distance.

“I didn’t summon the ghost of car trouble,” Brenda said, smacking the dashboard. “What now?”

Before any of us could answer, a black SUV rolled up behind us, its windows tinted darker than Juan’s plushie collection room back home. The driver’s door opened, and out stepped none other than Agent Hargrave. He looked even more disheveled than before, as if he hadn’t slept since the Plushie Paradise fiasco.

“I knew it,” he said, pointing a finger at us. “You people can’t stay out of trouble for five minutes.”

“Trouble?” Brenda said innocently, quickly shoving the lasagna spatula into the glove compartment. “We’re just… road-tripping.”

“Spare me the act,” Hargrave said, pulling out a clipboard. “I’ve been tracking you ever since you left Vegas. You’ve violated more laws than I can count, from illegal gambling to unlicensed plushie merchandising.”

Juan raised a hand. “Wait, is unlicensed plushie merchandising really a thing?”

Hargrave ignored him. “And now I find you hosting what looks like a cult meeting in a broken-down van. What’s the next step in your criminal mastermind plan, huh? Selling plushies out of a cowboy hat?”

Brenda’s eyes lit up. “That’s… actually a brilliant idea.”

“Don’t,” I said, but it was too late. Brenda was already marching toward the cowboy-hat convenience store, muttering about how it would be the perfect base of operations for a “plushie commune.” Juan followed her, clutching a duffel bag of plushies, while I stayed behind with Hargrave.

“Why are you still following us?” I asked. “You could be working on literally any case more important than this.”

Hargrave sighed. “At this point, I’m invested. You’re like a car crash I can’t look away from. Plus, someone higher up thinks your ridiculous schemes are part of a money-laundering operation. Personally, I think you’re just lunatics.”

By the time we caught up with Brenda and Juan, they were already haggling with the cowboy-hat store’s owner—a wiry old man wearing a ten-gallon hat that made him look like a caricature of himself. Brenda was trying to convince him to rent her the parking lot for a “pop-up plushie experience.”

“This is private property,” the man said. “You can’t just—”

“I’ll give you half of my lasagna profits,” Brenda said, pulling a steaming tray of lasagna from seemingly nowhere.

Hargrave groaned. “Why am I even surprised anymore?”


As night fell, the cowboy-hat parking lot transformed into a bizarre plushie carnival. Brenda had strung up Christmas lights, Juan had set up a claw machine powered by a car battery, and I was stuck manning a booth labeled “Adopt a Plushie—No Refunds.” Hargrave lurked in the shadows, likely taking notes for his next report.

The “customers” trickled in—mainly confused travelers who stopped for gas and ended up with a plushie raccoon or a lasagna slice they didn’t remember buying. At one point, a man in a cowboy costume showed up, claiming to be the sheriff, but Brenda convinced him to leave after giving him a plushie horse and calling it a “limited-edition collectible.”

Then, just as I thought the night couldn’t get any stranger, a helicopter appeared on the horizon, its searchlight sweeping over the parking lot. Hargrave’s face went pale.

“Oh no,” he muttered. “Not them.”

“Not who?” I asked, but before he could answer, the helicopter landed, and out stepped a team of heavily armed men in tactical gear—with “IRS” emblazoned on their vests.

Brenda froze mid-lasagna slice. Juan dropped the claw machine’s joystick. I stared at Hargrave, who threw up his hands.

“Don’t look at me,” he said. “I didn’t call them.”

The lead IRS agent pointed at Brenda. “Ma’am, we have reason to believe you’ve been evading taxes on your plushie business for years. You’re coming with us.”

Brenda gasped. “You can’t arrest me—I’m a visionary! A dreamer! A—”

Before she could finish, Juan stepped forward, holding up the Britney plushie like a talisman. “Take me instead! She’s innocent!”

“No, she’s not,” I said, but no one listened.

As the IRS agents closed in, Brenda grabbed a handful of plushies and made a break for it, yelling, “Every banger starts with a pinch!” Hargrave sighed, the agents chased, and I stood there wondering how my life had come to this.

And so, the Plushie Party’s latest venture ended in chaos, as it always does. But knowing Brenda and Juan, this was just another chapter in their never-ending saga of absurdity. And unfortunately for me, I was still along for the ride.
 
Chapter 12: The Ghost of Larry Fisherman


The air in Denver was crisp, a stark contrast to the chaos of the airport they had left behind. Price, Brenda, and Juan, freshly reunited, strolled through the bustling streets of the city, their chatter carrying the warmth of old friends rekindling a bond. But the atmosphere carried an undercurrent of tension: their visit wasn’t merely a casual reunion.


Larry Fisherman was an enigma, a man who had once been a cornerstone of their group. His stories of improbable escapades and his knack for solving even the messiest of their collective problems had made him larger than life. But in recent years, Larry had vanished without a trace. Sporadic texts had dwindled to silence. Now, they were determined to find him.


Brenda clutched her phone, eyes scanning the address Larry had once shared. “This is it,” she said, pointing to a modest, weathered house tucked into a quiet neighborhood.


The trio approached the door with a mix of excitement and apprehension. Price knocked, the sound echoing through the stillness.


Minutes passed, but no one answered.


“Maybe he’s out,” Juan suggested, though his tone was uncertain.


Brenda peeked through a window. “It’s empty. Like…completely empty.”


Price frowned. “This doesn’t feel right. Larry wouldn’t just up and leave without saying something. Would he?”


Juan shrugged. “He’s been distant for years. Maybe we just weren’t paying attention.”


They stood in silence, the weight of the situation settling over them. The man who had once been their rock was now a ghost, leaving nothing but unanswered questions in his wake.




Chapter 13: Disappointment and Departure


The trio found a diner nearby, their initial enthusiasm replaced by somber reflection. Brenda picked at her fries, Price nursed a black coffee, and Juan stared at the menu as if it held the answers to Larry’s disappearance.


“I don’t get it,” Brenda said finally, breaking the silence. “Larry was always there for us. Why would he just…cut us off?”


Price sighed, staring into his cup. “Maybe we didn’t realize what he was going through. People change, Brenda. Sometimes they just drift away.”


Juan leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. “Or maybe he needed space. We’re not exactly low-maintenance friends.”


That drew a chuckle from Brenda, but the sadness lingered.


As they left the diner, Price looked out at the Denver skyline. “What now? We came all this way, and Larry’s not here.”


Brenda pulled out her phone, scrolling through potential destinations. “We need a change of scenery. Something different. Something warm.”


Juan raised an eyebrow. “Warm? Are you thinking—”


“Miami,” Brenda interrupted, grinning. “Sun, beaches, and no chance of running into a ghost from our past.”


Price hesitated. “You sure about this? Miami’s…a lot.”


“That’s exactly why we should go,” Brenda said. “Larry might not want to talk to us, but we’re not going to let it ruin the rest of our trip.”


Juan nodded. “Miami it is. But let’s promise one thing: no airport lounge food this time.”




Chapter 14: Onward to Miami


The trio booked tickets for a red-eye flight, the glow of Denver’s city lights fading behind them as they boarded the plane. Brenda had snagged a window seat, already scrolling through Miami’s top attractions. Price, seated in the middle again, grumbled about his ongoing middle-seat curse, while Juan seemed unusually quiet.


“You okay, man?” Price asked, nudging him.


Juan shrugged. “Just thinking about Larry. It feels weird, you know? Like we missed something big.”


Brenda leaned over. “Hey, don’t dwell on it. People come and go, but the important ones? They leave a mark. Larry’s still part of who we are, even if he’s not around.”


The plane hummed as it climbed into the night sky, and the trio settled into an uneasy silence.


When they landed in Miami the next morning, the vibrant energy of the city hit them like a wave. The warm breeze, the sound of distant music, and the sight of palm trees lining the streets felt like a world away from the cold realities of Denver and Larry’s disappearance.


“This,” Brenda said, stretching her arms wide, “is exactly what we needed.”


Price nodded, a hint of a smile breaking through. “Alright, Miami. Let’s see what you’ve got.”


Juan adjusted his sunglasses, his usual humor returning. “Step one: find food. Step two: make some questionable decisions.”


As they headed into the city, they didn’t know what adventures awaited them. But for the first time in a long while, the weight of the past seemed a little lighter, and the promise of a new chapter felt like a breath of fresh air.




To be continued...
 

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