PanthersPens62
Paul & Stanley
Hood Morning & Happy Sunday Funday @MetalheadPenguinsFan !!!! 
IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIt'a a Panthers win !!!! 
IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIt'a a Panthers win !!!! Useless Thread MM: TSA Precheck Appreciation Thread
- Thread starter John Price
- Start date
-
Work is still on-going to rebuild the site styling and features. Please report any issues you may experience so we can look into it. Click Here for Updates
- Status
John Price
pro gambler/drinker
- Sep 19, 2008
- 388,826
- 32,073
See, this is the thing. I get that you think I am picking and choosing what is in my opinion “quality” content. But it’s actually the opposite - there have to be neutral principles announced in advance and applied as consistently as possible precisely so that I am not making a value judgment as to what in my opinion is or is not quality content. It’s either off-topic under the guidance we’ve given before or it’s not. The relative “merit” of the content is irrelevant. Whether I like the content is irrelevant. Whether it gets a ton of upvotes or downvotes is irrelevant. And I think that’s actually where a lot of people are getting tripped up here. Former players have been a real sticking point, but I’ve explained where I see the line on that more than once in the sub. We’re not going to have nightly threads on Soto with his new team. I get that people wouldn’t have a problem with that even if we did, but then where do you draw the line? You can’t mod without defining in advance where that line is and trying to call it as consistently as possible, as you see it. So that’s what the whole thing is about. If you want to suggest something different, give me another line that you think make sense and can be consistently enforced.
John Price
pro gambler/drinker
- Sep 19, 2008
- 388,826
- 32,073
PanthersPens62
Paul & Stanley
John Price
pro gambler/drinker
- Sep 19, 2008
- 388,826
- 32,073
John Price
pro gambler/drinker
- Sep 19, 2008
- 388,826
- 32,073
Why have I been blocked?
This website is using a security service to protect itself from online attacks. The action you just performed triggered the security solution. There are several actions that could trigger this block including submitting a certain word or phrase, a SQL command or malformed data.
What can I do to resolve this?
You can email the site owner to let them know you were blocked. Please include what you were doing when this page came up and the Cloudflare Ray ID found at the bottom of this page.
PanthersPens62
Paul & Stanley
Quinn Hughes scored twice and the Vancouver Canucks beat NHL-leading Washington 2-1 on Saturday night, keeping Capitals star Alex Ovechkin 20 goals shy of breaking Wayne Gretzky’s league record.
Hughes has five goals and two assists in a five-game points streak.
Defenseman Filip Hronek added two assists, and Kevin Lankinen stopped 32 shots.
Pierre-Luc Dubois scored for Washington, capping the scoring midway through the third. Charlie Lindgren made 23 saves for the Capitals.
SoupNazi
Keeps paying for Hangman’s OF to get promoted
- Feb 6, 2010
- 27,674
- 18,609
Los Angeles was a sensory overload. The hum of traffic, the glittering billboards, and the salty breeze rolling in from the Pacific were a far cry from the chaos we’d fled in Nevada. Brenda and I had holed up in a swanky hotel suite she’d somehow charged to Hargrave’s “emergency expense account,” and while she was busy scheming Juan’s jailbreak between bites of room service lasagna, I’d decided to stretch my legs and explore the city.
Walking along the bustling streets of downtown L.A., I felt a rare moment of peace. Brenda wasn’t yammering in my ear, plushies weren’t flying at my face, and there wasn’t an FBI agent lurking around every corner. I stopped at a food truck for a taco, savoring the calm.
That’s when I saw him.
Juan.
He was sitting on a bench outside a record store, wearing a Hawaiian shirt that barely stretched over his growing belly and a pair of sunglasses that made him look like a low-budget movie star. In his lap, naturally, sat a plush dolphin wearing a tiny sombrero.
“Juan?” I called, blinking as if I might be hallucinating.
He looked up, grinning like he hadn’t just been arrested days ago. “Oh, hey, man! Fancy running into you here!”
“What the hell are you doing out here?” I hissed, looking around to see if anyone else recognized him. “You were in jail two days ago!”
Juan waved dismissively. “Yeah, about that. You’re not gonna believe it, but I got out. Totally legal.”
“Totally legal?!” I nearly dropped my taco. “Juan, you’re a fugitive!”
“Not anymore!” he said, leaning back on the bench. “See, here’s what happened…”
He launched into a story so absurd it felt like a fever dream. According to Juan, the Plushie Army had continued their riot outside the prison long after we’d escaped, demanding his release and causing a media frenzy. The prison, already overwhelmed by the chaos, had called in negotiators to de-escalate the situation.
“That’s when I had my big idea,” Juan said, gesturing dramatically with the plush dolphin. “I told the warden I’d agree to stand down the Plushie Army if he let me out on ‘good behavior.’”
I stared at him. “Good behavior? You started a riot!”
“Details, details,” Juan said, waving me off. “The important thing is, the warden caved. Said it was easier to let me go than to keep dealing with the protestors. Signed the release papers and everything.”
“You’re telling me they just let you walk out of jail because of a riot you caused?”
“Pretty much,” Juan said, shrugging. “Oh, and I promised to donate some plushies to the prison’s therapy program. Win-win!”
I rubbed my temples, trying to process the absurdity of it all. “Brenda’s been in the hotel room losing her mind trying to figure out how to break you out, and you’re just… hanging out in L.A. with a plush dolphin?”
Juan grinned. “Well, I figured you two would show up eventually. Plus, I needed to decompress, you know? Prison life is tough.”
“You were in there for two days.”
“Two days too many.”
Before I could respond, Brenda’s voice echoed from down the street. “Narrator! I ordered us more lasagna—” She stopped dead in her tracks when she saw Juan. Her jaw dropped. “Juan?! How did you get out?!”
Juan held up the plush dolphin like it was a trophy. “Good behavior, Mom. I’m a free man!”
Brenda’s expression morphed from shock to elation. She ran to him, pulling him into a bone-crushing hug. “Oh, my sweet boy! I knew you’d figure something out! The Plushie Party lives on!”
As they celebrated, I stood there, wondering how much longer I could stay involved in this circus without completely losing my mind. But then again, it was hard to walk away when every step seemed to lead to something even more ridiculous.
Walking along the bustling streets of downtown L.A., I felt a rare moment of peace. Brenda wasn’t yammering in my ear, plushies weren’t flying at my face, and there wasn’t an FBI agent lurking around every corner. I stopped at a food truck for a taco, savoring the calm.
That’s when I saw him.
Juan.
He was sitting on a bench outside a record store, wearing a Hawaiian shirt that barely stretched over his growing belly and a pair of sunglasses that made him look like a low-budget movie star. In his lap, naturally, sat a plush dolphin wearing a tiny sombrero.
“Juan?” I called, blinking as if I might be hallucinating.
He looked up, grinning like he hadn’t just been arrested days ago. “Oh, hey, man! Fancy running into you here!”
“What the hell are you doing out here?” I hissed, looking around to see if anyone else recognized him. “You were in jail two days ago!”
Juan waved dismissively. “Yeah, about that. You’re not gonna believe it, but I got out. Totally legal.”
“Totally legal?!” I nearly dropped my taco. “Juan, you’re a fugitive!”
“Not anymore!” he said, leaning back on the bench. “See, here’s what happened…”
He launched into a story so absurd it felt like a fever dream. According to Juan, the Plushie Army had continued their riot outside the prison long after we’d escaped, demanding his release and causing a media frenzy. The prison, already overwhelmed by the chaos, had called in negotiators to de-escalate the situation.
“That’s when I had my big idea,” Juan said, gesturing dramatically with the plush dolphin. “I told the warden I’d agree to stand down the Plushie Army if he let me out on ‘good behavior.’”
I stared at him. “Good behavior? You started a riot!”
“Details, details,” Juan said, waving me off. “The important thing is, the warden caved. Said it was easier to let me go than to keep dealing with the protestors. Signed the release papers and everything.”
“You’re telling me they just let you walk out of jail because of a riot you caused?”
“Pretty much,” Juan said, shrugging. “Oh, and I promised to donate some plushies to the prison’s therapy program. Win-win!”
I rubbed my temples, trying to process the absurdity of it all. “Brenda’s been in the hotel room losing her mind trying to figure out how to break you out, and you’re just… hanging out in L.A. with a plush dolphin?”
Juan grinned. “Well, I figured you two would show up eventually. Plus, I needed to decompress, you know? Prison life is tough.”
“You were in there for two days.”
“Two days too many.”
Before I could respond, Brenda’s voice echoed from down the street. “Narrator! I ordered us more lasagna—” She stopped dead in her tracks when she saw Juan. Her jaw dropped. “Juan?! How did you get out?!”
Juan held up the plush dolphin like it was a trophy. “Good behavior, Mom. I’m a free man!”
Brenda’s expression morphed from shock to elation. She ran to him, pulling him into a bone-crushing hug. “Oh, my sweet boy! I knew you’d figure something out! The Plushie Party lives on!”
As they celebrated, I stood there, wondering how much longer I could stay involved in this circus without completely losing my mind. But then again, it was hard to walk away when every step seemed to lead to something even more ridiculous.
SoupNazi
Keeps paying for Hangman’s OF to get promoted
- Feb 6, 2010
- 27,674
- 18,609
San Francisco greeted us with its usual mix of fog and flamboyance, a perfect backdrop for what Brenda insisted would be “the Plushie Party’s triumphant return to the public eye.” Apparently, Pride Week was the ultimate stage to gain new recruits, sell plushies, and somehow rehab their tarnished reputations.
“Think about it,” Brenda said as we walked down Castro Street, her arms weighed down with rainbow-themed plushies. “Pride is all about inclusion. You know what’s inclusive? Plushies! They’re for everyone.”
Juan trailed behind us, wearing a bright pink feather boa draped over his usual Hawaiian shirt. In his hands, he carried a plush unicorn that had been hastily spray-painted with rainbow stripes. “I’m just here for the vibes,” he said, munching on a churro he’d picked up from a street vendor. “And maybe to find some new fans for my band.”
“What band?” I asked, but Brenda interrupted before Juan could launch into another pitch about Plushie Polka 2.0.
“We’re here to network, not waste time!” she snapped. “This could be our chance to get back on top! And I’ve got a new catchphrase ready to go: ‘A plushie for every soul, and a banger for every heart!’ What do you think?”
I didn’t have the heart to tell her it sounded like a bad campaign slogan mashed up with a nightclub advertisement.
As we made our way through the colorful parade, Juan and Brenda immediately began drawing attention—not necessarily the good kind. Juan had somehow found a way to attach a parade float’s rainbow flag to his back like a cape, and he was strutting through the crowd like a deranged superhero. Brenda, meanwhile, was aggressively trying to sell her rainbow plushies to anyone who so much as glanced in her direction.
“You there!” she shouted at a group of drag queens dressed as Disney villains. “This plush Ursula would go perfectly with your Maleficent look! A real banger of a match, if I do say so myself!”
The queens looked at her like she’d just spoken an alien language, and I could feel the secondhand embarrassment radiating off them.
Things took a turn for the absurd when Juan spotted a stage set up in the middle of the festivities. Without warning, he bolted toward it, dragging his makeshift cape behind him.
“Ladies and gentlemen!” he shouted into the microphone, causing the DJ to stop mid-track. “I am Juan Price, leader of the Plushie Party, and I dedicate this next performance to all of you fabulous people!”
Before anyone could stop him, he pulled a ukulele out of his bag and started playing a shaky, off-key rendition of “Over the Rainbow.” People booed almost immediately, but Juan powered through, grinning like he was headlining Coachella.
“He’s ruining Pride,” I muttered to Brenda, who didn’t seem the least bit concerned.
“Nonsense!” she said, clapping along. “This is the kind of exposure we need!”
Exposure was certainly one way to put it. By the time Juan finished, security was already approaching to drag him off the stage.
As we made our escape down Market Street, Brenda still clung to the delusion that this had been a successful venture. “I think we made a real impact today,” she said, proudly clutching her bag of unsold plushies.
Juan, still wearing his feather boa and cape, shrugged. “At least I got to perform for a crowd. And I think that one guy in the Darth Vader bikini liked my unicorn plushie.”
I sighed, realizing that every step of this journey was somehow more ridiculous than the last. But in San Francisco, amidst the glitter and chaos, it somehow made sense.
“Think about it,” Brenda said as we walked down Castro Street, her arms weighed down with rainbow-themed plushies. “Pride is all about inclusion. You know what’s inclusive? Plushies! They’re for everyone.”
Juan trailed behind us, wearing a bright pink feather boa draped over his usual Hawaiian shirt. In his hands, he carried a plush unicorn that had been hastily spray-painted with rainbow stripes. “I’m just here for the vibes,” he said, munching on a churro he’d picked up from a street vendor. “And maybe to find some new fans for my band.”
“What band?” I asked, but Brenda interrupted before Juan could launch into another pitch about Plushie Polka 2.0.
“We’re here to network, not waste time!” she snapped. “This could be our chance to get back on top! And I’ve got a new catchphrase ready to go: ‘A plushie for every soul, and a banger for every heart!’ What do you think?”
I didn’t have the heart to tell her it sounded like a bad campaign slogan mashed up with a nightclub advertisement.
As we made our way through the colorful parade, Juan and Brenda immediately began drawing attention—not necessarily the good kind. Juan had somehow found a way to attach a parade float’s rainbow flag to his back like a cape, and he was strutting through the crowd like a deranged superhero. Brenda, meanwhile, was aggressively trying to sell her rainbow plushies to anyone who so much as glanced in her direction.
“You there!” she shouted at a group of drag queens dressed as Disney villains. “This plush Ursula would go perfectly with your Maleficent look! A real banger of a match, if I do say so myself!”
The queens looked at her like she’d just spoken an alien language, and I could feel the secondhand embarrassment radiating off them.
Things took a turn for the absurd when Juan spotted a stage set up in the middle of the festivities. Without warning, he bolted toward it, dragging his makeshift cape behind him.
“Ladies and gentlemen!” he shouted into the microphone, causing the DJ to stop mid-track. “I am Juan Price, leader of the Plushie Party, and I dedicate this next performance to all of you fabulous people!”
Before anyone could stop him, he pulled a ukulele out of his bag and started playing a shaky, off-key rendition of “Over the Rainbow.” People booed almost immediately, but Juan powered through, grinning like he was headlining Coachella.
“He’s ruining Pride,” I muttered to Brenda, who didn’t seem the least bit concerned.
“Nonsense!” she said, clapping along. “This is the kind of exposure we need!”
Exposure was certainly one way to put it. By the time Juan finished, security was already approaching to drag him off the stage.
As we made our escape down Market Street, Brenda still clung to the delusion that this had been a successful venture. “I think we made a real impact today,” she said, proudly clutching her bag of unsold plushies.
Juan, still wearing his feather boa and cape, shrugged. “At least I got to perform for a crowd. And I think that one guy in the Darth Vader bikini liked my unicorn plushie.”
I sighed, realizing that every step of this journey was somehow more ridiculous than the last. But in San Francisco, amidst the glitter and chaos, it somehow made sense.
John Price
pro gambler/drinker
- Sep 19, 2008
- 388,826
- 32,073
SoupNazi
Keeps paying for Hangman’s OF to get promoted
- Feb 6, 2010
- 27,674
- 18,609
John Price
pro gambler/drinker
- Sep 19, 2008
- 388,826
- 32,073
**Chapter 15: Miami’s Sports Odyssey**
The Miami sun blazed overhead as Brenda, Price, and Juan piled into a rideshare, decked out in freshly bought Miami Hurricanes gear. Coral Gables was their first stop, and the excitement was palpable—until they checked the travel time.
“Thirty minutes to Coral Gables?” Brenda groaned, staring at her phone. “Why is everything in Miami so spread out?”
Price adjusted his Hurricanes cap. “You’d think a city with this much going on could put a stadium closer to, you know, the actual city.”
“Welcome to Miami,” Juan said, smirking. “Where the beaches are close, but the fun stuff requires a road trip.”
The car wound through traffic, palm trees blurring past the windows. By the time they arrived at the Hard Rock Stadium, the energy of the crowd made up for the hassle. Fans in orange and green poured into the stands, the sound of the marching band setting the stage for what promised to be an epic game.
The trio found their seats just as the Hurricanes scored their first touchdown, the crowd erupting in cheers.
“Alright,” Brenda said, leaning back with a grin. “This was worth the drive.”
Price nodded, munching on a plate of nachos. “Just wish I didn’t have to take out a second mortgage for stadium food.”
---
The Hurricanes secured a hard-fought victory, and the trio left the stadium buzzing with adrenaline. Their next destination was the Florida Panthers game in Sunrise. Brenda checked her phone again, her face falling.
“Forty-five minutes to Sunrise?” she exclaimed. “Who planned this city?”
Juan shrugged. “I’m starting to think Miami’s a practical joke someone played on Florida.”
---
The drive to FLA Live Arena was long but punctuated by Juan’s improvised songs about Miami’s sprawling geography, much to Brenda’s amusement and Price’s irritation.
When they finally arrived, the atmosphere was electric. The Panthers were facing off against a rival team, and the intensity in the arena was contagious.
Juan, who had declared himself a Panthers fan for the evening, jumped to his feet every time they approached the goal. “This is hockey! Why don’t we watch this more often?”
Brenda, sipping a giant soda, leaned over to Price. “Remind me to never let him near a hockey stick. He’ll hurt himself.”
The Panthers won in overtime, and the trio left the arena on a high. But as they waited for their rideshare, exhaustion began to set in.
“Great games,” Price said, stifling a yawn. “But next time, let’s pick a city where the stadiums aren’t in another zip code.”
Brenda chuckled. “Agreed. But hey, we survived Miami’s sports odyssey. That’s something.”
Juan nodded, leaning against a lamppost. “And now we know—Miami isn’t a city. It’s an endurance test.”
As the car pulled up, they piled in, ready to return to the city center and, hopefully, find some rest before their next adventure.
The Miami sun blazed overhead as Brenda, Price, and Juan piled into a rideshare, decked out in freshly bought Miami Hurricanes gear. Coral Gables was their first stop, and the excitement was palpable—until they checked the travel time.
“Thirty minutes to Coral Gables?” Brenda groaned, staring at her phone. “Why is everything in Miami so spread out?”
Price adjusted his Hurricanes cap. “You’d think a city with this much going on could put a stadium closer to, you know, the actual city.”
“Welcome to Miami,” Juan said, smirking. “Where the beaches are close, but the fun stuff requires a road trip.”
The car wound through traffic, palm trees blurring past the windows. By the time they arrived at the Hard Rock Stadium, the energy of the crowd made up for the hassle. Fans in orange and green poured into the stands, the sound of the marching band setting the stage for what promised to be an epic game.
The trio found their seats just as the Hurricanes scored their first touchdown, the crowd erupting in cheers.
“Alright,” Brenda said, leaning back with a grin. “This was worth the drive.”
Price nodded, munching on a plate of nachos. “Just wish I didn’t have to take out a second mortgage for stadium food.”
---
The Hurricanes secured a hard-fought victory, and the trio left the stadium buzzing with adrenaline. Their next destination was the Florida Panthers game in Sunrise. Brenda checked her phone again, her face falling.
“Forty-five minutes to Sunrise?” she exclaimed. “Who planned this city?”
Juan shrugged. “I’m starting to think Miami’s a practical joke someone played on Florida.”
---
The drive to FLA Live Arena was long but punctuated by Juan’s improvised songs about Miami’s sprawling geography, much to Brenda’s amusement and Price’s irritation.
When they finally arrived, the atmosphere was electric. The Panthers were facing off against a rival team, and the intensity in the arena was contagious.
Juan, who had declared himself a Panthers fan for the evening, jumped to his feet every time they approached the goal. “This is hockey! Why don’t we watch this more often?”
Brenda, sipping a giant soda, leaned over to Price. “Remind me to never let him near a hockey stick. He’ll hurt himself.”
The Panthers won in overtime, and the trio left the arena on a high. But as they waited for their rideshare, exhaustion began to set in.
“Great games,” Price said, stifling a yawn. “But next time, let’s pick a city where the stadiums aren’t in another zip code.”
Brenda chuckled. “Agreed. But hey, we survived Miami’s sports odyssey. That’s something.”
Juan nodded, leaning against a lamppost. “And now we know—Miami isn’t a city. It’s an endurance test.”
As the car pulled up, they piled in, ready to return to the city center and, hopefully, find some rest before their next adventure.
John Price
pro gambler/drinker
- Sep 19, 2008
- 388,826
- 32,073
End of Line
Sic Semper Tyrannis
- Mar 20, 2009
- 29,311
- 6,932
SoupNazi
Keeps paying for Hangman’s OF to get promoted
- Feb 6, 2010
- 27,674
- 18,609
We were holed up in a budget motel on the outskirts of San Francisco, the kind of place where the walls are thin enough to hear your neighbor’s existential crises. Brenda was pacing back and forth in our dingy little room, mumbling to herself while Juan lay sprawled on the bed, surrounded by his growing collection of plushies.
“This has to be it,” Brenda muttered. “We need something catchy. Something memorable. Something powerful.” She turned to me, her eyes alight with a manic energy I’d come to associate with her worst ideas.
“Why are you staring at me?” I asked, flipping through a complimentary map of the Bay Area that had clearly seen better days.
“You’re the writer,” she said. “Help me workshop this. I need a catchphrase that screams Brenda. Something bold. Something that’ll make people sit up and say, ‘Wow, she really gets it.’”
“You could always bring back ‘It’s a real banger,’” I suggested half-heartedly.
Brenda waved her hand dismissively. “Too dated. I need something new, something that reflects the next phase of the Plushie Party.”
Juan sat up from the bed, holding a plushie of a raccoon that he claimed was his new “spirit animal.” “How about something with a little edge? Like, ‘Plushies rule, haters drool.’”
Brenda frowned. “That’s… childish.”
Juan shrugged and went back to arranging his plushies in what looked like some kind of makeshift council.
“I’ve got it,” Brenda said suddenly, snapping her fingers. She turned to us with a dramatic flourish. “‘The world is plush, and so am I.’”
Juan and I exchanged a glance.
“Isn’t that just… nonsense?” I asked.
“No!” Brenda said, her tone defensive. “It’s deep. It’s poetic. It’s a reminder that life is soft, comforting, and full of possibilities. Like plushies!”
“It also makes no sense,” Juan said, poking at his raccoon plushie.
Brenda ignored him and kept pacing, repeating the phrase to herself like she was practicing for a TED Talk. “This is it,” she said, her voice growing more confident. “This is the one. This is what’s going to put us on the map.”
“What map?” I asked.
Brenda stopped pacing and pointed dramatically at me. “The world’s map, obviously. We’re going global. Plushies in every country, in every home. And it all starts with this phrase.”
“Whatever you say,” I muttered, going back to the map in my hands. I was trying to figure out the fastest way out of San Francisco, but deep down, I knew escape was impossible.
Juan, on the other hand, seemed inspired. He stood up and struck a heroic pose, holding his raccoon plushie aloft. “The world is plush, and so am I!” he shouted.
Brenda beamed. “Now you’re getting it.”
I sighed, realizing that no matter how ridiculous things got, there was no stopping them. Brenda and Juan were a force of nature, powered by delusion, determination, and an endless supply of plushies. And somehow, I was still along for the ride.
“This has to be it,” Brenda muttered. “We need something catchy. Something memorable. Something powerful.” She turned to me, her eyes alight with a manic energy I’d come to associate with her worst ideas.
“Why are you staring at me?” I asked, flipping through a complimentary map of the Bay Area that had clearly seen better days.
“You’re the writer,” she said. “Help me workshop this. I need a catchphrase that screams Brenda. Something bold. Something that’ll make people sit up and say, ‘Wow, she really gets it.’”
“You could always bring back ‘It’s a real banger,’” I suggested half-heartedly.
Brenda waved her hand dismissively. “Too dated. I need something new, something that reflects the next phase of the Plushie Party.”
Juan sat up from the bed, holding a plushie of a raccoon that he claimed was his new “spirit animal.” “How about something with a little edge? Like, ‘Plushies rule, haters drool.’”
Brenda frowned. “That’s… childish.”
Juan shrugged and went back to arranging his plushies in what looked like some kind of makeshift council.
“I’ve got it,” Brenda said suddenly, snapping her fingers. She turned to us with a dramatic flourish. “‘The world is plush, and so am I.’”
Juan and I exchanged a glance.
“Isn’t that just… nonsense?” I asked.
“No!” Brenda said, her tone defensive. “It’s deep. It’s poetic. It’s a reminder that life is soft, comforting, and full of possibilities. Like plushies!”
“It also makes no sense,” Juan said, poking at his raccoon plushie.
Brenda ignored him and kept pacing, repeating the phrase to herself like she was practicing for a TED Talk. “This is it,” she said, her voice growing more confident. “This is the one. This is what’s going to put us on the map.”
“What map?” I asked.
Brenda stopped pacing and pointed dramatically at me. “The world’s map, obviously. We’re going global. Plushies in every country, in every home. And it all starts with this phrase.”
“Whatever you say,” I muttered, going back to the map in my hands. I was trying to figure out the fastest way out of San Francisco, but deep down, I knew escape was impossible.
Juan, on the other hand, seemed inspired. He stood up and struck a heroic pose, holding his raccoon plushie aloft. “The world is plush, and so am I!” he shouted.
Brenda beamed. “Now you’re getting it.”
I sighed, realizing that no matter how ridiculous things got, there was no stopping them. Brenda and Juan were a force of nature, powered by delusion, determination, and an endless supply of plushies. And somehow, I was still along for the ride.
SoupNazi
Keeps paying for Hangman’s OF to get promoted
- Feb 6, 2010
- 27,674
- 18,609
Our departure from San Francisco started like most things with Brenda and Juan—with delusions of grandeur and ended with absolute chaos.
Brenda had decided to debut her new catchphrase, “The world is plush, and so am I,” at a Pride Week pop-up event near Dolores Park. She had Juan lug her makeshift booth—a rickety wooden table covered in poorly glued sequins and a vinyl banner proclaiming, “Plushie Power: Changing the World, One Hug at a Time.” Brenda insisted the booth would be the “centerpiece of the celebration,” despite being placed between a vegan hotdog stand and a guy juggling flaming bowling pins.
At first, the event seemed harmless enough. Juan pranced around in a hastily made plushie suit that he called “Randy the Revolutionary Raccoon,” handing out fliers for Brenda’s imaginary plushie empire. Meanwhile, Brenda gave an impassioned speech to a small crowd of confused passersby, complete with dramatic hand gestures.
“The world is plush!” she declared, standing atop a milk crate. “And so am I!”
Juan, sweating profusely inside his raccoon suit, clapped enthusiastically. A few scattered onlookers nodded politely.
But then, as always, things took a turn.
A man in a rainbow tank top and sunglasses approached the booth, holding one of the plush raccoons Juan had handed out. “Excuse me,” he said, waving the raccoon in front of Brenda. “Did you guys use real raccoon fur on these? Because that’s not okay.”
“Absolutely not!” Brenda replied, visibly offended. “We only use the finest synthetic plush fabrics. This is a cruelty-free operation!”
The man squinted at her. “Then why does it smell like burnt tires?”
Before Brenda could answer, a group of angry-looking activists joined the man, each holding one of the cheaply made plushies. “These things are falling apart!” one of them shouted. “I just hugged mine, and its ear came off!”
“It’s symbolic!” Brenda yelled back. “It represents the fragility of—”
But no one was listening anymore. Someone hurled a plushie back at the booth, hitting Juan square in the face. “Hey!” he shouted, pulling off the raccoon head. “These are collectibles!”
“Collectibles?” someone else yelled. “These are garbage!”
The next thing I knew, the crowd turned on us. Fliers, plushies, and pieces of Brenda’s booth were flying through the air.
“We should go!” I shouted, grabbing Brenda by the arm.
“Never!” Brenda yelled, clutching her milk crate like it was a lifeline. “I won’t abandon my movement!”
“Your movement is about to get us killed!” I snapped.
Juan, now fully out of his raccoon suit, was trying to gather up the remaining plushies while dodging a barrage of insults and organic hotdogs. “This is worse than the time in Vegas!” he yelled.
Somehow, we managed to escape the park, ducking down side streets and alleys while the mob pursued us. By the time we reached the van, Brenda’s sequined banner was in tatters, Juan had lost a shoe, and I was seriously considering hitchhiking my way out of this nightmare.
As we sped out of the city, Brenda sat in the passenger seat, defiantly clutching one of her raccoon plushies. “San Francisco just isn’t ready for us,” she said, glaring out the window.
“Yeah, that’s the problem,” I muttered.
Juan, from the backseat, sighed. “I think Randy the Revolutionary Raccoon needs a rebrand.”
“No,” Brenda said firmly. “We’re doubling down. The world is plush, and so are we. They’ll see. Everyone will see.”
I groaned and stared out at the road ahead, wondering how much longer I could survive this madness.
Brenda had decided to debut her new catchphrase, “The world is plush, and so am I,” at a Pride Week pop-up event near Dolores Park. She had Juan lug her makeshift booth—a rickety wooden table covered in poorly glued sequins and a vinyl banner proclaiming, “Plushie Power: Changing the World, One Hug at a Time.” Brenda insisted the booth would be the “centerpiece of the celebration,” despite being placed between a vegan hotdog stand and a guy juggling flaming bowling pins.
At first, the event seemed harmless enough. Juan pranced around in a hastily made plushie suit that he called “Randy the Revolutionary Raccoon,” handing out fliers for Brenda’s imaginary plushie empire. Meanwhile, Brenda gave an impassioned speech to a small crowd of confused passersby, complete with dramatic hand gestures.
“The world is plush!” she declared, standing atop a milk crate. “And so am I!”
Juan, sweating profusely inside his raccoon suit, clapped enthusiastically. A few scattered onlookers nodded politely.
But then, as always, things took a turn.
A man in a rainbow tank top and sunglasses approached the booth, holding one of the plush raccoons Juan had handed out. “Excuse me,” he said, waving the raccoon in front of Brenda. “Did you guys use real raccoon fur on these? Because that’s not okay.”
“Absolutely not!” Brenda replied, visibly offended. “We only use the finest synthetic plush fabrics. This is a cruelty-free operation!”
The man squinted at her. “Then why does it smell like burnt tires?”
Before Brenda could answer, a group of angry-looking activists joined the man, each holding one of the cheaply made plushies. “These things are falling apart!” one of them shouted. “I just hugged mine, and its ear came off!”
“It’s symbolic!” Brenda yelled back. “It represents the fragility of—”
But no one was listening anymore. Someone hurled a plushie back at the booth, hitting Juan square in the face. “Hey!” he shouted, pulling off the raccoon head. “These are collectibles!”
“Collectibles?” someone else yelled. “These are garbage!”
The next thing I knew, the crowd turned on us. Fliers, plushies, and pieces of Brenda’s booth were flying through the air.
“We should go!” I shouted, grabbing Brenda by the arm.
“Never!” Brenda yelled, clutching her milk crate like it was a lifeline. “I won’t abandon my movement!”
“Your movement is about to get us killed!” I snapped.
Juan, now fully out of his raccoon suit, was trying to gather up the remaining plushies while dodging a barrage of insults and organic hotdogs. “This is worse than the time in Vegas!” he yelled.
Somehow, we managed to escape the park, ducking down side streets and alleys while the mob pursued us. By the time we reached the van, Brenda’s sequined banner was in tatters, Juan had lost a shoe, and I was seriously considering hitchhiking my way out of this nightmare.
As we sped out of the city, Brenda sat in the passenger seat, defiantly clutching one of her raccoon plushies. “San Francisco just isn’t ready for us,” she said, glaring out the window.
“Yeah, that’s the problem,” I muttered.
Juan, from the backseat, sighed. “I think Randy the Revolutionary Raccoon needs a rebrand.”
“No,” Brenda said firmly. “We’re doubling down. The world is plush, and so are we. They’ll see. Everyone will see.”
I groaned and stared out at the road ahead, wondering how much longer I could survive this madness.
John Price
pro gambler/drinker
- Sep 19, 2008
- 388,826
- 32,073
Perfect Days is a 2023 drama film directed by Wim Wenders from a script written by Wenders and Takuma Takasaki.[4] A co-production between Japan and Germany, the film follows the routine life of Hirayama (Kōji Yakusho), a public toilet cleaner in Tokyo.[5]
Perfect Days premiered on 23 May 2023 at the 76th Cannes Film Festival, where it competed for the Palme d'Or and won the Prize of the Ecumenical Jury and the Best Actor Award for Kōji Yakusho. It was nominated for the Best International Feature Film at the 96th Academy Awards, becoming the first film directed by a non-Japanese filmmaker to be nominated as the Japanese entry.[6]
Perfect Days premiered on 23 May 2023 at the 76th Cannes Film Festival, where it competed for the Palme d'Or and won the Prize of the Ecumenical Jury and the Best Actor Award for Kōji Yakusho. It was nominated for the Best International Feature Film at the 96th Academy Awards, becoming the first film directed by a non-Japanese filmmaker to be nominated as the Japanese entry.[6]
John Price
pro gambler/drinker
- Sep 19, 2008
- 388,826
- 32,073
at least it's not one of those annoying AI voiceovers which takes no effort
those are too prevalent on IG
John Price
pro gambler/drinker
- Sep 19, 2008
- 388,826
- 32,073
SoupNazi
Keeps paying for Hangman’s OF to get promoted
- Feb 6, 2010
- 27,674
- 18,609
The van smelled like a toxic mix of stale lasagna, cheap beer, and regret—otherwise known as Juan and Brenda’s Roadtrip Eau de Parfum. Brenda was glued to her notebook, feverishly scribbling ideas for her next big plushie scheme, while Juan (now fully embracing the Babe Woof plushie as his emotional support toy) was three Millerades deep and getting louder by the second.
“I feeeel pretty, oh so pretty,” Juan crooned, holding Babe Woof like a Broadway prop as he leaned halfway out the van window. “I feel pretty and witty and BRIGHT!”
Brenda didn’t even look up. “John, shut up and stop throwing your cans out the window. Do you want to get us arrested for littering?”
“They’re biodegradable!” Juan hollered back, chucking an empty Millerade can into the bushes alongside the highway.
I winced as the can bounced off a mile marker. “I don’t think aluminum qualifies as biodegradable.”
Juan gave me a dramatic shrug. “Nature will figure it out.” Then he turned back to his plushie and cradled it like a baby. “Babe Woof, darling, what should I sing next? ‘Memory’ from Cats or ‘Defying Gravity’ from *Wicked’? Oh, you’re right—definitely Wicked.”
Brenda slapped her notebook shut and glared at him. “If you start singing about flying higher than an eagle, I will personally chuck you out of this van. And take that damn dog toy with you!”
“Dog toy?” Juan gasped, clutching Babe Woof to his chest as if Brenda had just insulted his firstborn child. “This is no ordinary plushie, Brenda. This is Babe Woof, the patron saint of the Plushie Party. Show some respect!”
“I’ll respect it when it starts paying rent,” Brenda shot back.
Meanwhile, I was just trying to keep the van on the road and my sanity intact. The drive from San Francisco to Denver was long, but it felt even longer with Juan turning the backseat into his personal cabaret. At one point, he tried to get me to harmonize with him on “Seasons of Love” from Rent. I refused.
“You’re no fun,” Juan pouted, taking another swig of Millerade.
“You’re drunk and off-key,” I countered.
As we crossed into Utah, Brenda suddenly perked up and pointed at the GPS. “We should stop at one of those roadside diners. I need to brainstorm ideas for the Denver plushie market.”
“Brainstorming, huh?” I said skeptically. “Is that what you call scarfing down greasy food and scribbling on napkins?”
Brenda ignored me and started rattling off her latest scheme. “I’m thinking plushie versions of local landmarks. Like a plushie Mile High Stadium. Or maybe a Rocky Mountain moose! People love mooses.”
“Plural is ‘moose,’ not ‘mooses,’” I muttered under my breath.
“I’m serious,” Brenda continued, undeterred. “And we could have Babe Woof as the official mascot. It’s perfect!”
“It’s insane,” I said.
“It’s brilliant,” Juan chimed in, hiccupping. “And I’ll be the official spokesperson for the Plushie Party. Picture this: me, Babe Woof, and a karaoke machine, spreading the plushie gospel across America!”
I groaned. “God help us all.”
As we approached the Colorado border, Juan decided it was time for an encore performance. “Let it goooo, let it goooo!” he belted out, his voice cracking.
“John, if you don’t let it go, I’m throwing you out,” Brenda snapped.
The van fell into a tense silence for a few blissful minutes, save for the occasional clinking of empty Millerade cans rolling around on the floor.
Finally, Denver appeared on the horizon, and Brenda clapped her hands together. “Alright, boys, let’s make some money. Plushies don’t sell themselves!”
“Unless they’re haunted,” Juan said with a wink, which I’m 80% sure he meant as a joke.
I sighed and tightened my grip on the steering wheel. Denver didn’t know what was about to hit it.
“I feeeel pretty, oh so pretty,” Juan crooned, holding Babe Woof like a Broadway prop as he leaned halfway out the van window. “I feel pretty and witty and BRIGHT!”
Brenda didn’t even look up. “John, shut up and stop throwing your cans out the window. Do you want to get us arrested for littering?”
“They’re biodegradable!” Juan hollered back, chucking an empty Millerade can into the bushes alongside the highway.
I winced as the can bounced off a mile marker. “I don’t think aluminum qualifies as biodegradable.”
Juan gave me a dramatic shrug. “Nature will figure it out.” Then he turned back to his plushie and cradled it like a baby. “Babe Woof, darling, what should I sing next? ‘Memory’ from Cats or ‘Defying Gravity’ from *Wicked’? Oh, you’re right—definitely Wicked.”
Brenda slapped her notebook shut and glared at him. “If you start singing about flying higher than an eagle, I will personally chuck you out of this van. And take that damn dog toy with you!”
“Dog toy?” Juan gasped, clutching Babe Woof to his chest as if Brenda had just insulted his firstborn child. “This is no ordinary plushie, Brenda. This is Babe Woof, the patron saint of the Plushie Party. Show some respect!”
“I’ll respect it when it starts paying rent,” Brenda shot back.
Meanwhile, I was just trying to keep the van on the road and my sanity intact. The drive from San Francisco to Denver was long, but it felt even longer with Juan turning the backseat into his personal cabaret. At one point, he tried to get me to harmonize with him on “Seasons of Love” from Rent. I refused.
“You’re no fun,” Juan pouted, taking another swig of Millerade.
“You’re drunk and off-key,” I countered.
As we crossed into Utah, Brenda suddenly perked up and pointed at the GPS. “We should stop at one of those roadside diners. I need to brainstorm ideas for the Denver plushie market.”
“Brainstorming, huh?” I said skeptically. “Is that what you call scarfing down greasy food and scribbling on napkins?”
Brenda ignored me and started rattling off her latest scheme. “I’m thinking plushie versions of local landmarks. Like a plushie Mile High Stadium. Or maybe a Rocky Mountain moose! People love mooses.”
“Plural is ‘moose,’ not ‘mooses,’” I muttered under my breath.
“I’m serious,” Brenda continued, undeterred. “And we could have Babe Woof as the official mascot. It’s perfect!”
“It’s insane,” I said.
“It’s brilliant,” Juan chimed in, hiccupping. “And I’ll be the official spokesperson for the Plushie Party. Picture this: me, Babe Woof, and a karaoke machine, spreading the plushie gospel across America!”
I groaned. “God help us all.”
As we approached the Colorado border, Juan decided it was time for an encore performance. “Let it goooo, let it goooo!” he belted out, his voice cracking.
“John, if you don’t let it go, I’m throwing you out,” Brenda snapped.
The van fell into a tense silence for a few blissful minutes, save for the occasional clinking of empty Millerade cans rolling around on the floor.
Finally, Denver appeared on the horizon, and Brenda clapped her hands together. “Alright, boys, let’s make some money. Plushies don’t sell themselves!”
“Unless they’re haunted,” Juan said with a wink, which I’m 80% sure he meant as a joke.
I sighed and tightened my grip on the steering wheel. Denver didn’t know what was about to hit it.
SoupNazi
Keeps paying for Hangman’s OF to get promoted
- Feb 6, 2010
- 27,674
- 18,609
Night had fallen over Denver, and the cool air was heavy with the scent of street food and exhaust. John—or rather, Juan, as he insisted on being called when hawking plushies—had decided that the best way to test the city’s market was to sell his wares directly to the people. His plan? Stand on a busy corner downtown with a folding table, a lantern, and a duffel bag full of plushies.
“You’re really going to sell plushies at night?” I asked as I leaned against the van, arms crossed.
“It’s called night marketing,” Juan said with a self-satisfied grin. He was dressed in his “Plushie Party Official Uniform,” which, unfortunately, consisted of a faded pink tank top, cargo shorts that rode dangerously high, and flip-flops. The outfit hugged his considerable bulk in all the wrong places. He looked less like a plushie vendor and more like someone’s aunt who’d had too many margaritas at a beach bar.
Brenda, perched on a nearby bench, was equally skeptical. “John, this is Denver, not Times Square. Who’s going to buy plushies from you at this hour?”
“Everyone,” Juan declared. “The people need plushies, and I am their savior. Babe Woof and I will crush this!” He held up his plushie mascot triumphantly.
Brenda rolled her eyes. “Whatever. Just don’t get arrested.”
With that, Juan waddled off to his chosen corner, dragging the duffel bag behind him. He set up shop under a flickering streetlight, his lantern casting ominous shadows on the plushies as he arranged them with care.
“Step right up, folks!” he shouted to the few passersby. “Get your plushies! Adorable, huggable, and perfect for all occasions! Babe Woof approves!”
Unfortunately, Juan’s “marketing strategy” quickly attracted the wrong kind of attention. A group of guys walking out of a nearby bar stopped and stared at him.
“Hey,” one of them slurred. “How much?”
Juan beamed. “Prices start at $10! But for you fine gentlemen, I’ll do $8 each.”
The drunk man squinted. “Eight bucks, huh? For the night?”
“For the plushie,” Juan corrected, holding up a plush eagle.
The guy burst out laughing. “Oh man, I thought you were—never mind. Hey, let’s get out of here.”
As the group wandered off, Juan scratched his head. “Weirdos,” he muttered before turning his attention to a couple waiting at the crosswalk.
“Good evening!” Juan said cheerfully. “How about a plushie to brighten your day?”
The couple hurried past without a word, glancing back nervously.
Undeterred, Juan kept at it, hollering about “the therapeutic power of plushies” and “limited-time discounts” to anyone within earshot. It wasn’t long before a police cruiser rolled up and parked at the curb.
Two officers stepped out, clearly sizing Juan up. One of them, a woman with a no-nonsense expression, approached him. “Sir, can I ask what you’re doing here tonight?”
Juan puffed out his chest, proudly displaying Babe Woof. “Just spreading joy and cuddles with these fine plushies! Would you like one? First responder discount!”
The officer exchanged a glance with her partner. “We’ve had some complaints,” she said carefully. “Some people think you’re soliciting.”
“Soliciting?” Juan blinked. “Of course I’m soliciting! How else am I supposed to sell plushies?”
Her partner stifled a laugh. “Sir, do you understand what kind of soliciting we’re talking about?”
Juan frowned, genuinely confused. “Uh… selling plushies on the corner?”
“No, sir,” the first officer said, trying to remain professional. “People think you’re, uh… offering certain services.”
“Services?” Juan repeated, his face scrunching up. “What kind of—oh.” His eyes widened in horror. “Oh no. You think I’m a… Oh, come on!”
Before he could explain further, a concerned citizen had already whipped out their phone to record the scene.
“Alright, sir, we need to take you in for questioning,” the officer said, pulling out handcuffs.
“Wait!” Juan protested as they cuffed him. “I’m just trying to sell plushies! I’m not… I’m not what you think!”
“Tell it to the judge,” the officer replied, steering him toward the cruiser.
As they loaded a flustered and bewildered Juan into the back seat, I couldn’t help but laugh. “Well, Brenda,” I said, turning to her, “you told him not to get arrested.”
Brenda smirked. “I didn’t think he’d get hauled in for looking like an obese streetwalker.” She pulled out her phone. “We’re gonna need bail money. Again.”
As the cruiser drove off, Juan’s muffled voice could be heard shouting from inside. “I’M INNOCENT! IT’S ALL ABOUT THE PLUSHIES!”
“You’re really going to sell plushies at night?” I asked as I leaned against the van, arms crossed.
“It’s called night marketing,” Juan said with a self-satisfied grin. He was dressed in his “Plushie Party Official Uniform,” which, unfortunately, consisted of a faded pink tank top, cargo shorts that rode dangerously high, and flip-flops. The outfit hugged his considerable bulk in all the wrong places. He looked less like a plushie vendor and more like someone’s aunt who’d had too many margaritas at a beach bar.
Brenda, perched on a nearby bench, was equally skeptical. “John, this is Denver, not Times Square. Who’s going to buy plushies from you at this hour?”
“Everyone,” Juan declared. “The people need plushies, and I am their savior. Babe Woof and I will crush this!” He held up his plushie mascot triumphantly.
Brenda rolled her eyes. “Whatever. Just don’t get arrested.”
With that, Juan waddled off to his chosen corner, dragging the duffel bag behind him. He set up shop under a flickering streetlight, his lantern casting ominous shadows on the plushies as he arranged them with care.
“Step right up, folks!” he shouted to the few passersby. “Get your plushies! Adorable, huggable, and perfect for all occasions! Babe Woof approves!”
Unfortunately, Juan’s “marketing strategy” quickly attracted the wrong kind of attention. A group of guys walking out of a nearby bar stopped and stared at him.
“Hey,” one of them slurred. “How much?”
Juan beamed. “Prices start at $10! But for you fine gentlemen, I’ll do $8 each.”
The drunk man squinted. “Eight bucks, huh? For the night?”
“For the plushie,” Juan corrected, holding up a plush eagle.
The guy burst out laughing. “Oh man, I thought you were—never mind. Hey, let’s get out of here.”
As the group wandered off, Juan scratched his head. “Weirdos,” he muttered before turning his attention to a couple waiting at the crosswalk.
“Good evening!” Juan said cheerfully. “How about a plushie to brighten your day?”
The couple hurried past without a word, glancing back nervously.
Undeterred, Juan kept at it, hollering about “the therapeutic power of plushies” and “limited-time discounts” to anyone within earshot. It wasn’t long before a police cruiser rolled up and parked at the curb.
Two officers stepped out, clearly sizing Juan up. One of them, a woman with a no-nonsense expression, approached him. “Sir, can I ask what you’re doing here tonight?”
Juan puffed out his chest, proudly displaying Babe Woof. “Just spreading joy and cuddles with these fine plushies! Would you like one? First responder discount!”
The officer exchanged a glance with her partner. “We’ve had some complaints,” she said carefully. “Some people think you’re soliciting.”
“Soliciting?” Juan blinked. “Of course I’m soliciting! How else am I supposed to sell plushies?”
Her partner stifled a laugh. “Sir, do you understand what kind of soliciting we’re talking about?”
Juan frowned, genuinely confused. “Uh… selling plushies on the corner?”
“No, sir,” the first officer said, trying to remain professional. “People think you’re, uh… offering certain services.”
“Services?” Juan repeated, his face scrunching up. “What kind of—oh.” His eyes widened in horror. “Oh no. You think I’m a… Oh, come on!”
Before he could explain further, a concerned citizen had already whipped out their phone to record the scene.
“Alright, sir, we need to take you in for questioning,” the officer said, pulling out handcuffs.
“Wait!” Juan protested as they cuffed him. “I’m just trying to sell plushies! I’m not… I’m not what you think!”
“Tell it to the judge,” the officer replied, steering him toward the cruiser.
As they loaded a flustered and bewildered Juan into the back seat, I couldn’t help but laugh. “Well, Brenda,” I said, turning to her, “you told him not to get arrested.”
Brenda smirked. “I didn’t think he’d get hauled in for looking like an obese streetwalker.” She pulled out her phone. “We’re gonna need bail money. Again.”
As the cruiser drove off, Juan’s muffled voice could be heard shouting from inside. “I’M INNOCENT! IT’S ALL ABOUT THE PLUSHIES!”
John Price
pro gambler/drinker
- Sep 19, 2008
- 388,826
- 32,073
**Chapter 16: The Hialeah Experience**
The morning sun cast a golden glow over Miami as the trio ventured into Hialeah, FL. Brenda, ever the planner, had insisted they explore the neighborhood, citing its rich Cuban culture and authentic food scene.
“This place is supposed to have the best cafecitos,” Brenda said, dragging Price and Juan into a bustling café.
Price stared at the tiny cup of Cuban coffee that the barista handed him. “This is it? Where’s the rest of it?”
Juan took a sip of his own and immediately perked up. “Who needs the rest? This stuff hits harder than a Red Bull!”
The trio spent the day wandering through Hialeah’s colorful streets, stopping at local bakeries for pastelitos and snapping photos of the vibrant murals. They stumbled upon a domino park, where older locals eyed them warily as they attempted to join a game.
“Careful,” Juan whispered as they sat down. “These guys look like they’ve been playing dominoes since the Nixon administration.”
Sure enough, they were quickly and thoroughly trounced by their opponents. As the trio left the park, Juan shook his head. “I think I just got schooled by a guy who called me ‘muchacho’ three times.”
---
**Chapter 17: A Taste of Authenticity**
Lunch brought them to a small family-owned restaurant, where they feasted on ropa vieja, lechon asado, and plantains. Brenda was in heaven, practically humming as she ate.
“This,” she said, waving a forkful of black beans and rice, “is the best thing we’ve done in Miami so far.”
Price nodded, savoring his meal. “I’ll give you that. Worth the trip.”
Juan, meanwhile, was making friends with the owner, who insisted on showing him the proper way to prepare Cuban espresso. By the time they left, Juan had acquired a bag of freshly ground coffee and a promise to return.
“Best food, best coffee,” he said, grinning. “Hialeah’s underrated.”
---
**Chapter 18: To the Hard Rock**
With Hialeah in the rearview mirror, the trio set their sights on Hard Rock Hollywood. Brenda, energized by her culinary triumph, declared the evening’s mission: hitting it big on the slots.
“Slots?” Price asked skeptically. “Don’t people lose money on those things?”
Brenda shrugged. “Maybe. But tonight, we’re not ‘people.’ We’re winners.”
As they entered the iconic guitar-shaped casino, the dazzling lights and cacophony of sounds overwhelmed them. Juan immediately headed for the nearest penny slot machine.
“This one speaks to me,” he said, pointing to a machine featuring a cartoon leprechaun.
Price rolled his eyes. “That thing speaks to your wallet, Juan.”
---
**Chapter 19: Hitting It Big**
The night started slow. Juan lost $20 in record time, while Brenda hovered over a machine called “Mermaid’s Fortune,” muttering encouragement as she pressed buttons.
Price, reluctant to play, eventually caved and fed a $5 bill into a slot machine called “Jackpot Junction.”
“This is a waste,” he grumbled as the reels spun.
But then, lights flashed, and a series of triumphant chimes erupted.
“Congratulations!” the machine blared.
Price stared at the screen, dumbfounded. “Wait. Did I just win something?”
Brenda leaned over, gasping. “You won $2,000! Are you kidding me?”
Juan cheered, clapping Price on the back. “The middle-seat king strikes gold!”
Emboldened by Price’s win, Brenda and Juan doubled down on their efforts. Brenda hit a modest jackpot on her mermaid machine, while Juan managed to recoup his losses and then some.
---
**Chapter 20: The Aftermath**
Flush with their winnings, the trio celebrated at a rooftop bar overlooking the casino. Price sipped a whiskey, still in disbelief.
“I can’t believe I actually won,” he said, shaking his head.
Brenda raised her glass. “To Miami: the city that takes your time but sometimes gives back your money.”
Juan laughed, holding up his drink. “And to us, for surviving it.”
As the night wore on, they reflected on their whirlwind adventure. From the chaos of the airport to the charm of Hialeah and the thrill of Hard Rock, their Miami trip had been unpredictable in all the best ways.
“So,” Brenda said, a mischievous glint in her eye. “What’s next?”
Juan grinned. “Vegas?”
Price groaned. “Let’s get home first.”
The trio clinked glasses, the promise of new adventures hanging in the warm Miami air.
---
*To be continued...*
The morning sun cast a golden glow over Miami as the trio ventured into Hialeah, FL. Brenda, ever the planner, had insisted they explore the neighborhood, citing its rich Cuban culture and authentic food scene.
“This place is supposed to have the best cafecitos,” Brenda said, dragging Price and Juan into a bustling café.
Price stared at the tiny cup of Cuban coffee that the barista handed him. “This is it? Where’s the rest of it?”
Juan took a sip of his own and immediately perked up. “Who needs the rest? This stuff hits harder than a Red Bull!”
The trio spent the day wandering through Hialeah’s colorful streets, stopping at local bakeries for pastelitos and snapping photos of the vibrant murals. They stumbled upon a domino park, where older locals eyed them warily as they attempted to join a game.
“Careful,” Juan whispered as they sat down. “These guys look like they’ve been playing dominoes since the Nixon administration.”
Sure enough, they were quickly and thoroughly trounced by their opponents. As the trio left the park, Juan shook his head. “I think I just got schooled by a guy who called me ‘muchacho’ three times.”
---
**Chapter 17: A Taste of Authenticity**
Lunch brought them to a small family-owned restaurant, where they feasted on ropa vieja, lechon asado, and plantains. Brenda was in heaven, practically humming as she ate.
“This,” she said, waving a forkful of black beans and rice, “is the best thing we’ve done in Miami so far.”
Price nodded, savoring his meal. “I’ll give you that. Worth the trip.”
Juan, meanwhile, was making friends with the owner, who insisted on showing him the proper way to prepare Cuban espresso. By the time they left, Juan had acquired a bag of freshly ground coffee and a promise to return.
“Best food, best coffee,” he said, grinning. “Hialeah’s underrated.”
---
**Chapter 18: To the Hard Rock**
With Hialeah in the rearview mirror, the trio set their sights on Hard Rock Hollywood. Brenda, energized by her culinary triumph, declared the evening’s mission: hitting it big on the slots.
“Slots?” Price asked skeptically. “Don’t people lose money on those things?”
Brenda shrugged. “Maybe. But tonight, we’re not ‘people.’ We’re winners.”
As they entered the iconic guitar-shaped casino, the dazzling lights and cacophony of sounds overwhelmed them. Juan immediately headed for the nearest penny slot machine.
“This one speaks to me,” he said, pointing to a machine featuring a cartoon leprechaun.
Price rolled his eyes. “That thing speaks to your wallet, Juan.”
---
**Chapter 19: Hitting It Big**
The night started slow. Juan lost $20 in record time, while Brenda hovered over a machine called “Mermaid’s Fortune,” muttering encouragement as she pressed buttons.
Price, reluctant to play, eventually caved and fed a $5 bill into a slot machine called “Jackpot Junction.”
“This is a waste,” he grumbled as the reels spun.
But then, lights flashed, and a series of triumphant chimes erupted.
“Congratulations!” the machine blared.
Price stared at the screen, dumbfounded. “Wait. Did I just win something?”
Brenda leaned over, gasping. “You won $2,000! Are you kidding me?”
Juan cheered, clapping Price on the back. “The middle-seat king strikes gold!”
Emboldened by Price’s win, Brenda and Juan doubled down on their efforts. Brenda hit a modest jackpot on her mermaid machine, while Juan managed to recoup his losses and then some.
---
**Chapter 20: The Aftermath**
Flush with their winnings, the trio celebrated at a rooftop bar overlooking the casino. Price sipped a whiskey, still in disbelief.
“I can’t believe I actually won,” he said, shaking his head.
Brenda raised her glass. “To Miami: the city that takes your time but sometimes gives back your money.”
Juan laughed, holding up his drink. “And to us, for surviving it.”
As the night wore on, they reflected on their whirlwind adventure. From the chaos of the airport to the charm of Hialeah and the thrill of Hard Rock, their Miami trip had been unpredictable in all the best ways.
“So,” Brenda said, a mischievous glint in her eye. “What’s next?”
Juan grinned. “Vegas?”
Price groaned. “Let’s get home first.”
The trio clinked glasses, the promise of new adventures hanging in the warm Miami air.
---
*To be continued...*
SoupNazi
Keeps paying for Hangman’s OF to get promoted
- Feb 6, 2010
- 27,674
- 18,609
Coming soon:
John and Brenda take their lasagna and plushies to Europe.
John and Brenda take their lasagna and plushies to Europe.
John Price
pro gambler/drinker
- Sep 19, 2008
- 388,826
- 32,073
Carroll basically forced Russell out of Seattle
Why would they reunite
Lol
Interestingly, Russell Wilson is another name to watch for the Raiders, per Jeff Howe of The Athletic. Carroll and Wilson are obviously more than familiar with each other, although the QB’s stint in Seattle didn’t end on the best of terms. According to Howe, the two have “mended fences,” and that means a reunion in Las Vegas isn’t out of the picture. Ian Rapoport of the NFL Network subsequently confirmed as much (video link).
John Price
pro gambler/drinker
- Sep 19, 2008
- 388,826
- 32,073
- Status
