SoupNazi
Keeps paying for Hangman’s OF to get promoted
- Feb 6, 2010
- 27,674
- 18,614
I don’t think he knows the difference. And by he I don’t mean Babe Woof.
Useless Thread MM: TSA Precheck Appreciation Thread
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SoupNazi
Keeps paying for Hangman’s OF to get promoted
- Feb 6, 2010
- 27,674
- 18,614
SoupNazi
Keeps paying for Hangman’s OF to get promoted
- Feb 6, 2010
- 27,674
- 18,614
By some miracle—or Hargrave's desire to not spend another night dealing with us—we were released from Amsterdam's custody the next morning. True to her word, Brenda immediately secured bus tickets to Berlin, declaring it the next frontier for her plushie empire.
“I’ve been thinking,” Brenda announced as we crossed the German border. “This is where the plushie empire gets serious. The Germans are all about precision, efficiency, and industry. They’ll love our plushies!”
I glanced over at Juan, who was flipping through a sketchbook filled with disturbing plushie concepts. “Do I even want to know what you’re working on?”
“Oh, this?” he said, holding up a rough drawing of a small, mustachioed plush figure. “It’s a historical collection. You know, famous people.”
I squinted at the drawing, then recoiled. “Juan, is that—?”
“Adolf Plushler!” he said proudly. “Think of the collectors’ value!”
The moment we arrived in Berlin, Brenda dragged us to the Brandenburg Gate, determined to set up shop in the middle of one of the city’s most iconic locations. As she unpacked her plushies, Juan displayed his “historical collection” with a suspicious amount of enthusiasm.
“Juan,” I hissed, pointing to his table of questionable plushies. “You can’t sell those here. Or anywhere.”
“Why not?” he asked, genuinely baffled. “It’s history!”
“It’s offensive!” I shot back. “Do you even know where we are?”
Before Juan could answer, a crowd began to form. At first, people seemed curious—maybe even amused—by the display of plush Brandenburg Gates, plush currywurst, and other tourist-friendly creations. But then someone spotted Juan’s “historical collection.”
“Is that…?” one woman asked, her voice dripping with horror.
“Nein!” a man shouted, pointing at the plush Hitler. “This is unacceptable!”
Within minutes, the situation spiraled out of control. Locals and tourists alike started shouting at Juan, who stood there looking bewildered, holding up a plushie like it was a sacred relic.
“It’s just a toy!” he tried to explain. “A piece of history! Look, it’s even squeezable!”
Someone grabbed the plushie out of his hands and threw it to the ground. Others followed suit, snatching plushies off the table and tossing them like grenades. One particularly angry woman hurled a plush Brandenburg Gate at Brenda, who ducked just in time.
“Hey!” Brenda shouted. “You’re ruining my stock!”
“Your stock is a disgrace!” someone yelled back.
Meanwhile, Juan—completely oblivious to the chaos—was trying to convince a tourist group from Italy that “Adolf Plushler” was “an educational tool.”
The police arrived in record time, shutting down the chaos and confiscating every plushie they could get their hands on. Brenda tried to negotiate with them, insisting that her plushies were “harmless” and “celebratory,” but it was no use.
As we were loaded into a police van for the second time in less than a week, Brenda sighed dramatically.
“Well,” she said, “that could’ve gone better.”
“Better?” I snapped. “Juan almost caused an international incident!”
“History isn’t always appreciated in its time,” Juan muttered, sulking in the corner.
Hargrave, who had somehow tracked us down yet again, was waiting for us outside the police station. She didn’t say a word as we were released into her custody, but the look on her face spoke volumes.
Back at the cheap hostel Brenda had booked, she tried to regroup.
“Berlin was a misstep,” she admitted. “But that’s okay. Empires aren’t built in a day.”
“Or in your case, ever,” I muttered under my breath.
Ignoring me, Brenda pulled out a map of Europe and started circling random cities.
“Next stop,” she declared, “Poland. The plushie empire will rise again!”
Hargrave groaned. Juan cheered. I considered jumping out the nearest window.
Somehow, I knew this was only going to get worse.
“I’ve been thinking,” Brenda announced as we crossed the German border. “This is where the plushie empire gets serious. The Germans are all about precision, efficiency, and industry. They’ll love our plushies!”
I glanced over at Juan, who was flipping through a sketchbook filled with disturbing plushie concepts. “Do I even want to know what you’re working on?”
“Oh, this?” he said, holding up a rough drawing of a small, mustachioed plush figure. “It’s a historical collection. You know, famous people.”
I squinted at the drawing, then recoiled. “Juan, is that—?”
“Adolf Plushler!” he said proudly. “Think of the collectors’ value!”
The moment we arrived in Berlin, Brenda dragged us to the Brandenburg Gate, determined to set up shop in the middle of one of the city’s most iconic locations. As she unpacked her plushies, Juan displayed his “historical collection” with a suspicious amount of enthusiasm.
“Juan,” I hissed, pointing to his table of questionable plushies. “You can’t sell those here. Or anywhere.”
“Why not?” he asked, genuinely baffled. “It’s history!”
“It’s offensive!” I shot back. “Do you even know where we are?”
Before Juan could answer, a crowd began to form. At first, people seemed curious—maybe even amused—by the display of plush Brandenburg Gates, plush currywurst, and other tourist-friendly creations. But then someone spotted Juan’s “historical collection.”
“Is that…?” one woman asked, her voice dripping with horror.
“Nein!” a man shouted, pointing at the plush Hitler. “This is unacceptable!”
Within minutes, the situation spiraled out of control. Locals and tourists alike started shouting at Juan, who stood there looking bewildered, holding up a plushie like it was a sacred relic.
“It’s just a toy!” he tried to explain. “A piece of history! Look, it’s even squeezable!”
Someone grabbed the plushie out of his hands and threw it to the ground. Others followed suit, snatching plushies off the table and tossing them like grenades. One particularly angry woman hurled a plush Brandenburg Gate at Brenda, who ducked just in time.
“Hey!” Brenda shouted. “You’re ruining my stock!”
“Your stock is a disgrace!” someone yelled back.
Meanwhile, Juan—completely oblivious to the chaos—was trying to convince a tourist group from Italy that “Adolf Plushler” was “an educational tool.”
The police arrived in record time, shutting down the chaos and confiscating every plushie they could get their hands on. Brenda tried to negotiate with them, insisting that her plushies were “harmless” and “celebratory,” but it was no use.
As we were loaded into a police van for the second time in less than a week, Brenda sighed dramatically.
“Well,” she said, “that could’ve gone better.”
“Better?” I snapped. “Juan almost caused an international incident!”
“History isn’t always appreciated in its time,” Juan muttered, sulking in the corner.
Hargrave, who had somehow tracked us down yet again, was waiting for us outside the police station. She didn’t say a word as we were released into her custody, but the look on her face spoke volumes.
Back at the cheap hostel Brenda had booked, she tried to regroup.
“Berlin was a misstep,” she admitted. “But that’s okay. Empires aren’t built in a day.”
“Or in your case, ever,” I muttered under my breath.
Ignoring me, Brenda pulled out a map of Europe and started circling random cities.
“Next stop,” she declared, “Poland. The plushie empire will rise again!”
Hargrave groaned. Juan cheered. I considered jumping out the nearest window.
Somehow, I knew this was only going to get worse.
SoupNazi
Keeps paying for Hangman’s OF to get promoted
- Feb 6, 2010
- 27,674
- 18,614
We arrived in Poland after an overnight bus ride from Berlin, Juan loudly singing polka tunes in the backseat while cradling his plushie collection. Brenda, meanwhile, was scouring her phone for ways to capitalize on the Polish market. Her newest scheme? “Pierogi lasagna,” which she claimed was a blend of Italian and Polish traditions that “no one asked for, but everyone needs.”
As soon as we hit Warsaw, Brenda found a bustling street market and commandeered a corner stall. Within hours, she had a banner strung up reading “Authentic Polish-Italian Fusion – It’s a Real Banger of a Pierogi Platter!” The scent of sauerkraut, noodles, and melted cheese wafted down the street, drawing in curious locals.
Juan, dressed in lederhosen (completely missing that we weren’t in Germany anymore), stood at the booth yelling, “Get your pierogi lasagna and plushie Pope John Paul II dolls here!” His plushie lineup included Polish historical figures and…for some reason, a plushie of a sausage link he named “Kielbasa Carl.”
The locals were intrigued at first—until someone actually tasted Brenda’s lasagna. One elderly man spit it out immediately, shouting, “This is an insult to pierogi and lasagna!” Another woman took one bite, made a face, and then threw her plate to the ground.
It all came to a head when Juan attempted to barter a plushie Copernicus doll for kielbasa from a butcher’s stall. The butcher took one look at Juan’s lederhosen, muttered something in Polish that I assumed wasn’t complimentary, and then started chasing him down the street with a meat cleaver.
As chaos erupted, Brenda turned to me, wiping her hands on her apron. “This might’ve been a miscalculation,” she said, as though she hadn’t just unleashed culinary war on Warsaw.
By the end of the day, we found ourselves banned from the market and escorted out of town by the local police. But Brenda, ever the optimist, was undeterred.
“Poland just wasn’t ready for us,” she said, nodding sagely as we boarded yet another bus. “But wait until we hit Hungary. They’ll love my goulash lasagna.”
I could already feel my stomach turning at the thought. Meanwhile, Juan was busy sewing together a new plushie in the shape of a pierogi, muttering under his breath about “avenging plushie pride.”
As soon as we hit Warsaw, Brenda found a bustling street market and commandeered a corner stall. Within hours, she had a banner strung up reading “Authentic Polish-Italian Fusion – It’s a Real Banger of a Pierogi Platter!” The scent of sauerkraut, noodles, and melted cheese wafted down the street, drawing in curious locals.
Juan, dressed in lederhosen (completely missing that we weren’t in Germany anymore), stood at the booth yelling, “Get your pierogi lasagna and plushie Pope John Paul II dolls here!” His plushie lineup included Polish historical figures and…for some reason, a plushie of a sausage link he named “Kielbasa Carl.”
The locals were intrigued at first—until someone actually tasted Brenda’s lasagna. One elderly man spit it out immediately, shouting, “This is an insult to pierogi and lasagna!” Another woman took one bite, made a face, and then threw her plate to the ground.
It all came to a head when Juan attempted to barter a plushie Copernicus doll for kielbasa from a butcher’s stall. The butcher took one look at Juan’s lederhosen, muttered something in Polish that I assumed wasn’t complimentary, and then started chasing him down the street with a meat cleaver.
As chaos erupted, Brenda turned to me, wiping her hands on her apron. “This might’ve been a miscalculation,” she said, as though she hadn’t just unleashed culinary war on Warsaw.
By the end of the day, we found ourselves banned from the market and escorted out of town by the local police. But Brenda, ever the optimist, was undeterred.
“Poland just wasn’t ready for us,” she said, nodding sagely as we boarded yet another bus. “But wait until we hit Hungary. They’ll love my goulash lasagna.”
I could already feel my stomach turning at the thought. Meanwhile, Juan was busy sewing together a new plushie in the shape of a pierogi, muttering under his breath about “avenging plushie pride.”
Sega Dreamcast
party like it's 1999
End of Line
Sic Semper Tyrannis
- Mar 20, 2009
- 29,311
- 6,936
Oogie Boogie
Registered User
- Apr 9, 2011
- 24,271
- 3,294
Reason #365477 why football sucks
If the Eagles win ze Super Bowl then that’ll mean another Philthy championship. But if ze Chiefs win, then the media won’t STFU about that dolt who’se shacking up with Taylor Swift
Lose-lose.
If the Eagles win ze Super Bowl then that’ll mean another Philthy championship. But if ze Chiefs win, then the media won’t STFU about that dolt who’se shacking up with Taylor Swift
Lose-lose.
PanthersPens62
Paul & Stanley
John Price
pro gambler/drinker
- Sep 19, 2008
- 388,826
- 32,075
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...
SoupNazi
Keeps paying for Hangman’s OF to get promoted
- Feb 6, 2010
- 27,674
- 18,614
John Price
pro gambler/drinker
- Sep 19, 2008
- 388,826
- 32,075
John Price
pro gambler/drinker
- Sep 19, 2008
- 388,826
- 32,075
John Price
pro gambler/drinker
- Sep 19, 2008
- 388,826
- 32,075
Broadcast Was “Surprisingly Resilient” In 2024 Amid Production Declines, But Streaming Still Leads The Pack; ‘Fool Me Once’ Led TV Last Year, Luminate Says
Fool Me Once was the biggest TV series of 2024, according to a new report from Luminate
deadline.com
failed show
how do you mess up LOTR IP that badly
SoupNazi
Keeps paying for Hangman’s OF to get promoted
- Feb 6, 2010
- 27,674
- 18,614
Imagine being @John Price ‘s mom and being able to say that your son’s big accomplishments are 389,000 posts on a message board, and a collection of 50,000 plushies. 
John Price
pro gambler/drinker
- Sep 19, 2008
- 388,826
- 32,075
IG embeds dont' seem to be working, can yinz fix that
The lack of IGs in these threads mean a lot less brainrot
The lack of IGs in these threads mean a lot less brainrot
John Price
pro gambler/drinker
- Sep 19, 2008
- 388,826
- 32,075
@PanthersPens62
I am still trying to cope with the "Jills" losing yesterday, I am done with football until August
It is now baseball time
I am still trying to cope with the "Jills" losing yesterday, I am done with football until August
It is now baseball time
John Price
pro gambler/drinker
- Sep 19, 2008
- 388,826
- 32,075
John Price
pro gambler/drinker
- Sep 19, 2008
- 388,826
- 32,075
SoupNazi
Keeps paying for Hangman’s OF to get promoted
- Feb 6, 2010
- 27,674
- 18,614
- Status
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