Useless Thread MM: TSA Precheck Appreciation Thread
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SoupNazi
Keeps paying for Hangman’s OF to get promoted
- Feb 6, 2010
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After the London debacle, Brenda was somehow more motivated than ever. Sitting in a questionable hostel outside of Dover, she unveiled her next big plan while eating a packet of stale crackers.
“Here’s the thing,” she began, crumbs flying. “The French respect culture. They appreciate good food. They’ll love this next idea.”
I stared at her, already bracing for the worst. “Please don’t tell me it involves Mussolini again.”
“No!” she said, almost offended. “We’re pivoting. The new plan is sauerkraut lasagna.”
Juan, who was sprawled on a squeaky bunk bed with his trusty plushie Babe Woof, perked up. “Sauerkraut lasagna? That sounds… like an acquired taste.”
Brenda pointed her cracker at him like it was a weapon. “It’s fusion cuisine! The Germans will love it because of the sauerkraut, and the French will love it because… well, because they’re French! They eat snails, for crying out loud. This will be a hit!”
“Brenda,” I said, pinching the bridge of my nose, “do you even know how to make lasagna?”
“Do you know how to shut up and trust the vision?” she shot back.
A few days later, we were in Paris, standing awkwardly near the Eiffel Tower. Brenda had somehow secured a folding table and slapped together a sign that read:
“WORLD-FAMOUS SAUERKRAUT LASAGNA – A FUSION DELIGHT!”
On the table sat several questionable-looking trays of lasagna, the greenish tint of the sauerkraut peeking ominously through the cheese. Next to them were the latest plushie creations: baguette-shaped plushies with faces embroidered on them. Brenda had named them “Baguette Berets.”
As tourists passed, Brenda went full carnival barker.
“Step right up! Try the lasagna that’s taking Europe by storm! Sauerkraut meets pasta in a dish so bold, so revolutionary, it’ll make your taste buds sing La Marseillaise!”
Juan chimed in, holding up a plushie. “And don’t forget a Baguette Beret for the kids! Only €15!”
The French, predictably, were horrified.
“C’est un crime!” muttered one elderly man, glaring at the lasagna.
“What is this? German? Italian? What even are you doing?” asked a woman, visibly distressed.
Brenda was undeterred. “This is the future of European cuisine! Don’t be afraid of progress!”
The tipping point came when a group of chefs from a nearby bistro wandered over. One of them, wearing a pristine white apron and the unmistakable air of culinary superiority, examined the lasagna with a look of pure disdain.
“This,” he said in heavily accented English, “is an insult to food. To France. To life.”
“Well, monsieur snooty-pants,” Brenda shot back, “maybe you should try it before judging!”
The chef reluctantly picked up a forkful, took a bite, and immediately spat it onto the ground.
“It tastes like sadness,” he declared, clutching his chest dramatically.
Things spiraled quickly from there. The chefs started yelling, Brenda started yelling back, and Juan, sensing things were getting out of hand, began trying to pacify the crowd by tossing free Baguette Berets to children.
Unfortunately, one of the plushies hit a pigeon mid-flight, and the ensuing chaos—feathers, screaming kids, and a sauerkraut-covered chef chasing Brenda with a rolling pin—drew the attention of the police.
And, of course, standing behind the officers was none other than Agent Hargrave, looking utterly exasperated.
“Hargrave!” I blurted out, waving weakly.
He sighed. “I knew you’d end up in Paris. I just didn’t think it would be this.”
“Didn’t think what?” Brenda demanded, sauerkraut dripping from her hair. “That I’d bring culinary brilliance to the masses?”
“No,” Hargrave replied flatly. “That you’d spark an international incident again.”
By the end of the day, Brenda’s lasagna stand was confiscated, Juan was weeping over a baguette plushie that had been trampled, and I was seriously considering running away to live a quiet life somewhere in the Alps.
As we sat in a Parisian jail cell, Brenda crossed her arms and muttered, “Those French don’t know a good banger of a pinched log when they see one.”
Juan sniffled. “At least Babe Woof liked the lasagna.”
Hargrave, standing just outside the bars, shook his head. “God help me. You’re all insane.”
“Here’s the thing,” she began, crumbs flying. “The French respect culture. They appreciate good food. They’ll love this next idea.”
I stared at her, already bracing for the worst. “Please don’t tell me it involves Mussolini again.”
“No!” she said, almost offended. “We’re pivoting. The new plan is sauerkraut lasagna.”
Juan, who was sprawled on a squeaky bunk bed with his trusty plushie Babe Woof, perked up. “Sauerkraut lasagna? That sounds… like an acquired taste.”
Brenda pointed her cracker at him like it was a weapon. “It’s fusion cuisine! The Germans will love it because of the sauerkraut, and the French will love it because… well, because they’re French! They eat snails, for crying out loud. This will be a hit!”
“Brenda,” I said, pinching the bridge of my nose, “do you even know how to make lasagna?”
“Do you know how to shut up and trust the vision?” she shot back.
A few days later, we were in Paris, standing awkwardly near the Eiffel Tower. Brenda had somehow secured a folding table and slapped together a sign that read:
“WORLD-FAMOUS SAUERKRAUT LASAGNA – A FUSION DELIGHT!”
On the table sat several questionable-looking trays of lasagna, the greenish tint of the sauerkraut peeking ominously through the cheese. Next to them were the latest plushie creations: baguette-shaped plushies with faces embroidered on them. Brenda had named them “Baguette Berets.”
As tourists passed, Brenda went full carnival barker.
“Step right up! Try the lasagna that’s taking Europe by storm! Sauerkraut meets pasta in a dish so bold, so revolutionary, it’ll make your taste buds sing La Marseillaise!”
Juan chimed in, holding up a plushie. “And don’t forget a Baguette Beret for the kids! Only €15!”
The French, predictably, were horrified.
“C’est un crime!” muttered one elderly man, glaring at the lasagna.
“What is this? German? Italian? What even are you doing?” asked a woman, visibly distressed.
Brenda was undeterred. “This is the future of European cuisine! Don’t be afraid of progress!”
The tipping point came when a group of chefs from a nearby bistro wandered over. One of them, wearing a pristine white apron and the unmistakable air of culinary superiority, examined the lasagna with a look of pure disdain.
“This,” he said in heavily accented English, “is an insult to food. To France. To life.”
“Well, monsieur snooty-pants,” Brenda shot back, “maybe you should try it before judging!”
The chef reluctantly picked up a forkful, took a bite, and immediately spat it onto the ground.
“It tastes like sadness,” he declared, clutching his chest dramatically.
Things spiraled quickly from there. The chefs started yelling, Brenda started yelling back, and Juan, sensing things were getting out of hand, began trying to pacify the crowd by tossing free Baguette Berets to children.
Unfortunately, one of the plushies hit a pigeon mid-flight, and the ensuing chaos—feathers, screaming kids, and a sauerkraut-covered chef chasing Brenda with a rolling pin—drew the attention of the police.
And, of course, standing behind the officers was none other than Agent Hargrave, looking utterly exasperated.
“Hargrave!” I blurted out, waving weakly.
He sighed. “I knew you’d end up in Paris. I just didn’t think it would be this.”
“Didn’t think what?” Brenda demanded, sauerkraut dripping from her hair. “That I’d bring culinary brilliance to the masses?”
“No,” Hargrave replied flatly. “That you’d spark an international incident again.”
By the end of the day, Brenda’s lasagna stand was confiscated, Juan was weeping over a baguette plushie that had been trampled, and I was seriously considering running away to live a quiet life somewhere in the Alps.
As we sat in a Parisian jail cell, Brenda crossed her arms and muttered, “Those French don’t know a good banger of a pinched log when they see one.”
Juan sniffled. “At least Babe Woof liked the lasagna.”
Hargrave, standing just outside the bars, shook his head. “God help me. You’re all insane.”
John Price
pro gambler/drinker
- Sep 19, 2008
- 388,825
- 32,072
Chapter 21: Blackjack at the Wynn
The Wynn Las Vegas was everything they’d imagined and more: a dazzling display of luxury, excess, and pure Vegas energy. The trio walked through the grand lobby, where gold accents and lavish floral displays seemed to scream, You don’t belong here, but you’ll love it anyway.
Brenda stopped short in front of the casino floor, eyeing the tables. “Alright, boys. Blackjack. Who’s in?”
Price hesitated. “I already peaked at the slots. Let’s not push our luck.”
Juan clapped him on the back. “Come on, Price. Blackjack’s not luck; it’s skill. Sort of.”
The three of them sidled up to a table with a modest $25 minimum bet. A sharply dressed dealer greeted them with a smile. “Welcome to the Wynn. Place your bets.”
---
The First Hand
Brenda went all in on her first hand, confidently sliding $50 onto the felt. Price begrudgingly matched her, while Juan, feeling bold, tossed in $100.
The cards came out: Brenda got an 18, Price a 16, and Juan…a perfect 21.
“Yes!” Juan shouted, earning a disapproving glare from the dealer and chuckles from the other players.
Price stared at his cards and sighed. “Hit me.”
The dealer dealt him a five. “Twenty-one,” the dealer said, and Price blinked in disbelief.
“Maybe this Vegas thing isn’t so bad,” he muttered.
Brenda stuck with her 18, the dealer busted, and the trio won their first round.
---
Confidence Grows
Over the next few hands, their confidence grew. Brenda began counting cards—or at least pretending to—while Juan developed a habit of calling the dealer “buddy” every time he got a good card.
“Buddy,” Juan said, leaning back after another win. “You’re my guy. Keep these coming.”
The dealer gave him a tight smile. “I don’t control the cards, sir.”
Price, ever the skeptic, kept his bets low and steady. “I don’t trust this place,” he muttered. “Feels too good to be true.”
Brenda laughed. “You won two grand in Miami. How are you still paranoid?”
“Because I know how this works,” Price replied. “The house always wins.”
---
The Turning Point
As the night went on, the tide began to turn. Brenda lost a big hand after doubling down on an unlucky 11. Juan, still riding high, bet aggressively and started losing chips faster than he could replace them.
“This is fine,” Juan said, sweating as he handed another $100 to the dealer. “It’s all part of the game.”
Price, true to form, had stayed cautious and was now the only one in the black. He grinned as he pulled in another small win.
“See?” he said. “Patience pays off.”
Brenda rolled her eyes. “We didn’t come to Vegas to play it safe, Price.”
“No, but we also didn’t come to lose our shirts,” he shot back.
---
The Final Hand
With their stacks dwindling, Brenda proposed one last hand. They each agreed to put in their remaining chips.
The cards were dealt:
Brenda: A queen and a seven—17.
Price: A pair of eights.
Juan: A king and a nine—19.
Price split his eights, earning an 18 and a 20. Juan stood, confident in his 19. Brenda hesitated but stayed with her 17.
The dealer revealed their hand: a five and a jack—15. They drew a six, busting at 21.
The table erupted in cheers as the trio won their final hand.
---
The Aftermath
As they cashed out, Brenda sighed with relief. “We came out even. That’s basically a win.”
Juan pocketed his chips with a grin. “Not bad for a bunch of amateurs.”
Price, the most conservative player of the night, held up his small stack. “I told you—slow and steady.”
Brenda rolled her eyes. “Alright, Mr. Responsible. Let’s go find a buffet or something.”
The trio left the table, their spirits high despite the ups and downs. Vegas had tested th
eir luck, but they’d come out unscathed—and ready for whatever came next.
---
To be continued...
The Wynn Las Vegas was everything they’d imagined and more: a dazzling display of luxury, excess, and pure Vegas energy. The trio walked through the grand lobby, where gold accents and lavish floral displays seemed to scream, You don’t belong here, but you’ll love it anyway.
Brenda stopped short in front of the casino floor, eyeing the tables. “Alright, boys. Blackjack. Who’s in?”
Price hesitated. “I already peaked at the slots. Let’s not push our luck.”
Juan clapped him on the back. “Come on, Price. Blackjack’s not luck; it’s skill. Sort of.”
The three of them sidled up to a table with a modest $25 minimum bet. A sharply dressed dealer greeted them with a smile. “Welcome to the Wynn. Place your bets.”
---
The First Hand
Brenda went all in on her first hand, confidently sliding $50 onto the felt. Price begrudgingly matched her, while Juan, feeling bold, tossed in $100.
The cards came out: Brenda got an 18, Price a 16, and Juan…a perfect 21.
“Yes!” Juan shouted, earning a disapproving glare from the dealer and chuckles from the other players.
Price stared at his cards and sighed. “Hit me.”
The dealer dealt him a five. “Twenty-one,” the dealer said, and Price blinked in disbelief.
“Maybe this Vegas thing isn’t so bad,” he muttered.
Brenda stuck with her 18, the dealer busted, and the trio won their first round.
---
Confidence Grows
Over the next few hands, their confidence grew. Brenda began counting cards—or at least pretending to—while Juan developed a habit of calling the dealer “buddy” every time he got a good card.
“Buddy,” Juan said, leaning back after another win. “You’re my guy. Keep these coming.”
The dealer gave him a tight smile. “I don’t control the cards, sir.”
Price, ever the skeptic, kept his bets low and steady. “I don’t trust this place,” he muttered. “Feels too good to be true.”
Brenda laughed. “You won two grand in Miami. How are you still paranoid?”
“Because I know how this works,” Price replied. “The house always wins.”
---
The Turning Point
As the night went on, the tide began to turn. Brenda lost a big hand after doubling down on an unlucky 11. Juan, still riding high, bet aggressively and started losing chips faster than he could replace them.
“This is fine,” Juan said, sweating as he handed another $100 to the dealer. “It’s all part of the game.”
Price, true to form, had stayed cautious and was now the only one in the black. He grinned as he pulled in another small win.
“See?” he said. “Patience pays off.”
Brenda rolled her eyes. “We didn’t come to Vegas to play it safe, Price.”
“No, but we also didn’t come to lose our shirts,” he shot back.
---
The Final Hand
With their stacks dwindling, Brenda proposed one last hand. They each agreed to put in their remaining chips.
The cards were dealt:
Brenda: A queen and a seven—17.
Price: A pair of eights.
Juan: A king and a nine—19.
Price split his eights, earning an 18 and a 20. Juan stood, confident in his 19. Brenda hesitated but stayed with her 17.
The dealer revealed their hand: a five and a jack—15. They drew a six, busting at 21.
The table erupted in cheers as the trio won their final hand.
---
The Aftermath
As they cashed out, Brenda sighed with relief. “We came out even. That’s basically a win.”
Juan pocketed his chips with a grin. “Not bad for a bunch of amateurs.”
Price, the most conservative player of the night, held up his small stack. “I told you—slow and steady.”
Brenda rolled her eyes. “Alright, Mr. Responsible. Let’s go find a buffet or something.”
The trio left the table, their spirits high despite the ups and downs. Vegas had tested th
eir luck, but they’d come out unscathed—and ready for whatever came next.
---
To be continued...
John Price
pro gambler/drinker
- Sep 19, 2008
- 388,825
- 32,072
i don't know why these refs always have to be earl hebner rip-offs
you're not part of the game stop trying to interfere
you're not part of the game stop trying to interfere
Sega Dreamcast
party like it's 1999
Sega Dreamcast
party like it's 1999
Packers clearly recovered a fumble on the opening kickoff, yet the refs let a scrum happen and gave the Eagles the ball.
Eagles recover a fumble, refs call it Eagles ball and ignore the scrum where the Eagles lost the ball.
What bullshit
Eagles recover a fumble, refs call it Eagles ball and ignore the scrum where the Eagles lost the ball.
What bullshit
John Price
pro gambler/drinker
- Sep 19, 2008
- 388,825
- 32,072
Sega Dreamcast
party like it's 1999
Can't wait to watch the refs put their thumb on the scale in the second game.
I can only wonder which team they're going to benefit.
I can only wonder which team they're going to benefit.
Sega Dreamcast
party like it's 1999
John Price
pro gambler/drinker
- Sep 19, 2008
- 388,825
- 32,072
because half your defense was out
American nightmare is Philly making the Superbowl
End of Line
Sic Semper Tyrannis
- Mar 20, 2009
- 29,311
- 6,932
The American Nightmare is the Eagles AND Chiefs making it to the Super Bowl again
Sega Dreamcast
party like it's 1999
Half of the defense being injured isn't why the offense shit the bed.
Run the ball against a bad run defense? No, let's force Goff to pass too much, which was a notable misstep in our two previous losses.
Sega Dreamcast
party like it's 1999
Driving to potentially go up 14-3, and they called an empty-backfield on a 3rd and 1, leading to Goff fumbling.
Because the defense was injured, the offense simply couldn't afford to f*** up and take points off the board.
One bad decision and now you're trailing and making riskier decisions.
Because the defense was injured, the offense simply couldn't afford to f*** up and take points off the board.
One bad decision and now you're trailing and making riskier decisions.
Last edited:
End of Line
Sic Semper Tyrannis
- Mar 20, 2009
- 29,311
- 6,932
It’s Philly so it’ll be a cup of *** instead
Sega Dreamcast
party like it's 1999
Kelce gets in someone's face and taunts right after a touchdown.
Penalty on the guy that runs up and gets in Kelce's face.
What nonsense
Penalty on the guy that runs up and gets in Kelce's face.
What nonsense
SoupNazi
Keeps paying for Hangman’s OF to get promoted
- Feb 6, 2010
- 27,674
- 18,608
SoupNazi
Keeps paying for Hangman’s OF to get promoted
- Feb 6, 2010
- 27,674
- 18,608
After the disaster in Paris, Hargrave somehow managed to negotiate our release on the condition that we leave France immediately. Brenda, ever the optimist, saw this as an opportunity.
"Amsterdam," she declared as we boarded the cheapest bus she could find. "The city of freedom, canals, and… plushies."
“Do they even like plushies in Amsterdam?” I asked, slumping into a seat next to Juan, who was hugging Babe Woof like it was his emotional support animal—which, frankly, it was.
“Everyone loves plushies,” Brenda said confidently, “especially in a city that embraces the weird. This is our chance to make a comeback!”
We arrived in Amsterdam just as the sun was setting, the canals glistening under the soft glow of streetlights. Brenda immediately set her sights on Dam Square, where she planned to set up her latest scheme: plushie tulips.
“Tourists will eat this up!” she said, holding up one of the prototypes—a stuffed tulip with googly eyes and a floppy stem. “It’s cultural, it’s adorable, and it’s way better than that sauerkraut lasagna.”
“Not exactly a high bar,” I muttered.
Juan, meanwhile, was focused on “networking.” This consisted of him waddling into various coffee shops and trying to convince the locals that his Babe Woof plushie was “a collector’s item.”
“Juan,” I said as he returned from yet another failed pitch, smelling vaguely of something herbal, “why are you so bad at this?”
“It’s not my fault they don’t appreciate true artistry!” he huffed, holding up Babe Woof dramatically. “This is a masterpiece!”
The next morning, Brenda was in full sales mode at Dam Square. She had managed to secure a prime spot next to a street performer dressed as a living statue. Her plushie tulips were displayed on a makeshift table, alongside a new creation: plush clogs.
“Step right up!” Brenda shouted to passersby. “Get your Dutch heritage in a huggable form! Plush tulips and clogs—fun for the whole family!”
To her credit, the tourists were intrigued. Several stopped to take pictures, and a few even bought plushies.
“See?” Brenda said, beaming. “Amsterdam gets it.”
Unfortunately, her success was short-lived.
A group of actual Dutch tulip farmers happened to be passing through the square, and they were not impressed.
“This is an insult to our culture!” one of them shouted, pointing accusingly at a plushie tulip. “Tulips are a symbol of our nation’s pride, not some… some toy!”
“It’s art,” Brenda argued, her hands on her hips.
“It’s a disgrace,” the farmer shot back.
Things escalated quickly. The tulip farmers started yelling, Brenda yelled back, and Juan—who had been snacking on a questionable brownie—decided to jump in and defend the plushies.
“You don’t understand!” he said, wobbling slightly. “These tulips… they’re magical. They speak to the soul.”
One of the farmers grabbed a plush clog and threw it at Juan’s head. Chaos erupted. Tourists scattered, plushies flew through the air, and somehow the living statue got involved, chasing Brenda around the square while shouting in Dutch.
By the time the police arrived, the square looked like a plushie battlefield. Brenda was covered in tulip stuffing, Juan was crying over a torn Babe Woof, and I was just trying to blend into the crowd.
And then, as if things couldn’t get worse, Agent Hargrave showed up.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” he said, surveying the carnage.
“Hargrave!” Brenda exclaimed, looking genuinely thrilled. “You’re just in time to see the plushie revolution!”
Hargrave stared at her, deadpan. “You’re under arrest for disturbing the peace. Again.”
That night, we found ourselves in yet another jail cell, with Brenda plotting her next move.
“Amsterdam didn’t work out, but that’s okay,” she said, undeterred. “We’ll go somewhere else. Somewhere bigger. Somewhere where plushies will finally get the respect they deserve.”
“Where, Brenda?” I asked, exasperated.
She grinned. “Berlin.”
Juan groaned. I groaned louder. Hargrave, standing outside the cell with a cup of coffee, simply sighed.
“God help Berlin,” he muttered.
"Amsterdam," she declared as we boarded the cheapest bus she could find. "The city of freedom, canals, and… plushies."
“Do they even like plushies in Amsterdam?” I asked, slumping into a seat next to Juan, who was hugging Babe Woof like it was his emotional support animal—which, frankly, it was.
“Everyone loves plushies,” Brenda said confidently, “especially in a city that embraces the weird. This is our chance to make a comeback!”
We arrived in Amsterdam just as the sun was setting, the canals glistening under the soft glow of streetlights. Brenda immediately set her sights on Dam Square, where she planned to set up her latest scheme: plushie tulips.
“Tourists will eat this up!” she said, holding up one of the prototypes—a stuffed tulip with googly eyes and a floppy stem. “It’s cultural, it’s adorable, and it’s way better than that sauerkraut lasagna.”
“Not exactly a high bar,” I muttered.
Juan, meanwhile, was focused on “networking.” This consisted of him waddling into various coffee shops and trying to convince the locals that his Babe Woof plushie was “a collector’s item.”
“Juan,” I said as he returned from yet another failed pitch, smelling vaguely of something herbal, “why are you so bad at this?”
“It’s not my fault they don’t appreciate true artistry!” he huffed, holding up Babe Woof dramatically. “This is a masterpiece!”
The next morning, Brenda was in full sales mode at Dam Square. She had managed to secure a prime spot next to a street performer dressed as a living statue. Her plushie tulips were displayed on a makeshift table, alongside a new creation: plush clogs.
“Step right up!” Brenda shouted to passersby. “Get your Dutch heritage in a huggable form! Plush tulips and clogs—fun for the whole family!”
To her credit, the tourists were intrigued. Several stopped to take pictures, and a few even bought plushies.
“See?” Brenda said, beaming. “Amsterdam gets it.”
Unfortunately, her success was short-lived.
A group of actual Dutch tulip farmers happened to be passing through the square, and they were not impressed.
“This is an insult to our culture!” one of them shouted, pointing accusingly at a plushie tulip. “Tulips are a symbol of our nation’s pride, not some… some toy!”
“It’s art,” Brenda argued, her hands on her hips.
“It’s a disgrace,” the farmer shot back.
Things escalated quickly. The tulip farmers started yelling, Brenda yelled back, and Juan—who had been snacking on a questionable brownie—decided to jump in and defend the plushies.
“You don’t understand!” he said, wobbling slightly. “These tulips… they’re magical. They speak to the soul.”
One of the farmers grabbed a plush clog and threw it at Juan’s head. Chaos erupted. Tourists scattered, plushies flew through the air, and somehow the living statue got involved, chasing Brenda around the square while shouting in Dutch.
By the time the police arrived, the square looked like a plushie battlefield. Brenda was covered in tulip stuffing, Juan was crying over a torn Babe Woof, and I was just trying to blend into the crowd.
And then, as if things couldn’t get worse, Agent Hargrave showed up.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” he said, surveying the carnage.
“Hargrave!” Brenda exclaimed, looking genuinely thrilled. “You’re just in time to see the plushie revolution!”
Hargrave stared at her, deadpan. “You’re under arrest for disturbing the peace. Again.”
That night, we found ourselves in yet another jail cell, with Brenda plotting her next move.
“Amsterdam didn’t work out, but that’s okay,” she said, undeterred. “We’ll go somewhere else. Somewhere bigger. Somewhere where plushies will finally get the respect they deserve.”
“Where, Brenda?” I asked, exasperated.
She grinned. “Berlin.”
Juan groaned. I groaned louder. Hargrave, standing outside the cell with a cup of coffee, simply sighed.
“God help Berlin,” he muttered.
End of Line
Sic Semper Tyrannis
- Mar 20, 2009
- 29,311
- 6,932
He’s a Cleveland rat and always will be
I should add that ppl from Columbus and Cincinnati do not like Clevelanders
John Price
pro gambler/drinker
- Sep 19, 2008
- 388,825
- 32,072
SoupNazi
Keeps paying for Hangman’s OF to get promoted
- Feb 6, 2010
- 27,674
- 18,608
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
- 18,608
He’s going to head home to show Babe Woof a good time.
End of Line
Sic Semper Tyrannis
- Mar 20, 2009
- 29,311
- 6,932
- Status
