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Useless Thread MMI: Babe Woof Depreciation Thread

We were rolling toward Kyiv, despite the protests of our increasingly unhinged bus driver, Dimitri. The chaos in Lviv hadn’t fazed Brenda one bit. In fact, she was already brainstorming new ways to take her plushie and lasagna empire to "the next level."

“We’re going to be the Patriots of Pasta, the Freedom Fighters of Fettuccine!” Brenda declared, holding a clipboard she’d commandeered from Dimitri. “You know what they’ll say when we’re done? They’ll say, ‘That Brenda’s lasagna hits harder than a bear in a barroom brawl!’”

Juan clapped enthusiastically. “That’s a good one, Brenda! You’re on fire today!”

I buried my face in my hands. A bear in a barroom brawl? At this point, Brenda’s catchphrases were getting as unhinged as her lasagna recipes.

We stopped at a roadside diner near Zhytomyr for a break, and that’s where Juan’s “love story” began. The woman was sitting at the counter, sipping a coffee. She was young, blonde, and had a sharpness in her eyes that suggested she wasn’t someone to be trifled with. She introduced herself as Tatiana, and Juan was immediately smitten.

“Hi, I’m Juan,” he said, puffing out his chest and trying to look confident. “I’m an entrepreneur and a plushie visionary.”

Tatiana raised an eyebrow. “Plushies? You mean… toys?”

“Not just toys!” Juan exclaimed, pulling out his trusty plush sunflower. “These are works of art. Emotional support. They’re changing the world.”

Tatiana smiled, intrigued. “Interesting. And what else do you do, Juan?”

“Well,” Juan said, leaning in conspiratorially, “I’m also an international man of mystery. I’ve been to Brazil, North Korea, and now Ukraine. My life is… complicated.”

I watched from a distance, shaking my head. Somehow, this was actually working. Tatiana laughed at his jokes and even took an interest in his plushie designs. For a moment, it seemed like Juan might finally have a shot at romance.

But then, over dinner, the conversation took a turn.

“So,” Tatiana asked, resting her chin on her hand, “you’ve had many adventures, Juan. What about… romantic ones?”

Juan froze. His face turned redder than Brenda’s borscht lasagna. “Uh, well… you see…”

Tatiana’s expression shifted. “Wait… you’ve never been with a woman, have you?”

Juan stammered. “I mean, not technically, but I—”

Tatiana leaned back, her intrigue turning into disbelief. “You’re a virgin?”

Juan’s shoulders slumped. “Yes,” he mumbled.

Tatiana blinked, then stood up abruptly. “I thought you were some kind of world traveler, a man of experience. But you’re just… a kid with stuffed animals.” She shook her head and walked out of the diner without another word.

Juan returned to the table, dejected. “She called me a kid,” he muttered, clutching his plush sunflower like a security blanket.

Brenda, oblivious to his heartbreak, patted him on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, Juan. You don’t need a woman when you’ve got plushies and lasagna. And anyway, a bear in a barroom brawl doesn’t stop to cry over spilled honey!”

“Stop saying that,” I snapped.

But Brenda wasn’t listening. She was already planning her next move: setting up a lasagna and plushie stand in Independence Square in Kyiv. And knowing her, there would be more chaos, heartbreak, and ridiculous catchphrases before the day was over.
 
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We arrived in Kyiv to the sound of sirens and the sight of military personnel patrolling the streets. Yet, Brenda was undeterred. “This city is just begging for plushies and lasagna!” she announced, clutching her clipboard.

We set up shop in Independence Square under heavy skepticism from locals, but Brenda had a way of making the impossible seem absurdly plausible. That’s when the news broke: Vladimir Putin himself had crossed into Ukraine for an unprecedented diplomatic meeting. The entire city buzzed with the shocking announcement, but Brenda's reaction was the most outrageous.

“I’ve got it,” she said, her eyes gleaming with a mix of delusion and determination. “I’ll seduce Putin.”

Juan and I froze.

“Excuse me, what?” I asked, half-laughing, half-horrified.

“You heard me,” Brenda said, flipping her hair dramatically. “The man’s clearly misunderstood. He just needs a woman with... let’s say, unconventional charm to bring him to the side of good. And who better than me?”

“Literally anyone else,” I muttered.

Brenda ignored me and launched into her plan. She would pose as a diplomat selling Ukrainian-themed lasagna and use her "feminine wiles" to lure Putin into a vulnerable position—emotionally, of course. Juan, somehow buying into this madness, started sketching out plushie designs featuring Russian and Ukrainian symbols of peace.

A few hours later, the moment arrived. Putin, surrounded by a sea of bodyguards and high-ranking officials, entered the square. Brenda, dressed in what could only be described as “diplomatic cocktail wear” (a sparkly, ill-fitting evening gown she bought at a Kyiv thrift store), strode toward him with the confidence of a woman who had never been told no.

“Mr. Putin!” she called, balancing a tray of lasagna samples in one hand and twirling a plushie eagle in the other. “Care to try a bite of diplomacy?”

The bodyguards stiffened, and Putin raised an eyebrow. “What… is this?” he asked in a thick Russian accent.

“It’s lasagna!” Brenda chirped. “But not just any lasagna—this is Ukrainian lasagna with a hint of borscht and a sprinkle of international peace. You could call it… a ‘barroom banger of flavors.’”

Putin stared at her, unblinking. “You want me to eat… this?”

“Yes,” Brenda said, leaning in closer than anyone should ever lean toward Vladimir Putin. “And maybe later, you and I can discuss dessert.”

I groaned audibly, but Brenda was in too deep to back out now.

Putin’s expression didn’t change. “Nyet,” he said flatly. “And you… are delusional.”

Brenda gasped, clutching her chest as though she’d been shot. “Delusional? You’re passing up lasagna like this? You’ll regret it, Mr. Putin!”

“Please remove her,” Putin said to his guards, who immediately escorted Brenda away, her tray of lasagna crashing to the ground.

Juan and I watched from a safe distance. “Do you think she’ll ever learn?” I asked.

Juan shook his head, holding up a plushie of a sunflower wearing sunglasses. “Nope. But at least she’s consistent.”

Brenda returned to us moments later, unbothered by her spectacular failure. “Well, that didn’t work, but you know what they say: ‘You miss 100% of the lasagnas you don’t bake!’”

“That’s not what they say,” I muttered.

But Brenda wasn’t listening. She was already brainstorming her next plan, one that, I suspected, would somehow be even more disastrous. Meanwhile, I just prayed we’d make it out of Ukraine alive.
 
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Chapter 23: Dinner at Ramsay’s Kitchen at Harrah’s


The trio strolled down the Las Vegas Strip, the neon glow reflecting off the pavement as they made their way toward Harrah’s. Their whirlwind night had already included a high-stakes round of blackjack and an unforgettable run-in with Lisa Vanderpump, but Brenda had one last stop on the itinerary: dinner at Ramsay’s Kitchen.


“I’ve been waiting for this all day,” Brenda said, practically dragging the others toward the restaurant entrance. “Do you guys even understand how legendary Gordon Ramsay is?”


Juan smirked. “Of course we do. We’ve all seen him scream at helpless chefs on TV.”


Price, who was still riding the high of his blackjack winnings, rubbed his stomach. “As long as I get a steak that isn’t raw, I’ll be happy.”


A well-dressed hostess greeted them and led them to a sleek, dimly lit table near the open kitchen. The scent of sizzling butter and perfectly cooked beef filled the air, making their stomachs growl in unison.



A Culinary Experience​


As they perused the menu, Brenda gasped. “They have the Beef Wellington. The Beef Wellington.”


Price raised an eyebrow. “You’re acting like it’s the Holy Grail.”


“It basically is,” Brenda shot back. “It’s Gordon Ramsay’s signature dish.”


Juan, meanwhile, was eyeing the cocktails. “They’ve got a Smoked Old Fashioned,” he mused. “That’s got ‘Vegas’ written all over it.”


A waiter approached, effortlessly polished in a black suit. “Welcome to Ramsay’s Kitchen. Are we ready to order?”


Brenda, practically vibrating with excitement, ordered the Beef Wellington. Juan went for the lobster risotto, and Price settled on a prime dry-aged ribeye.


“And for drinks?” the waiter asked.


“Smoked Old Fashioned,” Juan said without hesitation.


“I’ll take a glass of red wine,” Brenda said.


Price smirked. “Just a beer for me. Ramsay-approved or not, I keep it simple.”


The waiter gave an approving nod. “Excellent choices.”



Perfection on a Plate​


When their meals arrived, Brenda actually let out a tiny gasp.


“This is art,” she whispered, staring at the perfectly golden Beef Wellington before cutting into it. The pastry flaked away, revealing a pink, tender center. She took one bite and closed her eyes.


“Oh my God,” she breathed. “This is life-changing.”


Juan took a forkful of his lobster risotto, the creamy texture melting in his mouth. “I think I just transcended reality,” he said. “Is this what fine dining does to people?”


Price, ever the skeptic, sliced into his ribeye, chewing thoughtfully before giving a small nod of approval. “Alright,” he admitted. “This steak’s damn good.”


The trio savored every bite, occasionally exchanging looks of disbelief at how incredible everything tasted. Brenda kept muttering things like “perfection” and “Ramsay’s a genius” between mouthfuls.



A Surprise Guest… Almost​


As they finished their meals, a buzz spread through the restaurant. Whispers floated from table to table.


“Wait a second…” Brenda’s eyes widened. “Is he here?”


Juan turned in his chair, spotting a flash of spiky blond hair in the distance. “Oh my God. Is that Gordon Ramsay?”


Price glanced over but sighed. “No, that’s just some guy who thinks he’s Gordon Ramsay.”


Brenda groaned. “Ugh. I got excited for nothing.”


Still, the food had been so good that it barely mattered. As the waiter returned with the check, Juan leaned back in his chair, thoroughly satisfied.


“Okay,” he said, stretching. “Lisa Vanderpump and Ramsay’s Kitchen in one night? This is top-tier Vegas.”


Brenda nodded. “And now we know. If we ever see the real Gordon Ramsay, we tell him this meal was perfect.”


Price smirked. “Or we ask him if the steak was actually raw.”


They all laughed as they stepped back out onto the Strip, their stomachs full and their Vegas adventure still far from over.



To be continued...
 
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