End of Line
Sic Semper Tyrannis
- Mar 20, 2009
- 29,556
- 7,246
Useless thread MMII: Eagles & Buckeyes championship appreciation thread
- Thread starter End of Line
- Start date
-
Xenforo Cloud will be upgrading us to version 2.3.5 on March 3rd at 12 AM GMT. This version has increased stability and fixes several bugs. We expect downtime for the duration of the update. The admin team will continue to work on existing issues, templates and upgrade all necessary available addons to minimize impact of this new version. Click Here for Updates
SoupNazi
Global Moderator
- Feb 6, 2010
- 27,765
- 18,853
You’re crashing someone’s 6th birthday party?
SoupNazi
Global Moderator
- Feb 6, 2010
- 27,765
- 18,853
We landed in Algiers under a scorching sun, Juan sweating through his “Official North Korean Ambassador” t-shirt while Brenda adjusted her newly purchased camel-hair coat, which she claimed gave her “a regal air, like Cleopatra but with better lasagna.” Our escape from North Korea had been surprisingly smooth—probably because Kim Jong-un was still recovering from the undercooked hamburger incident.
Juan had one goal in Algeria: to set up a plushie trading post in the Casbah. Brenda, however, had already put out feelers for her next business venture—she wanted to open a “Mediterranean Fusion” lasagna stand in the middle of the Sahara, because, as she put it, “Who wouldn’t want a steaming hot plate of cheese and noodles while wandering the dunes?”
Before either of them could put their ridiculous plans into action, a black SUV pulled up beside us. The tinted window rolled down, revealing none other than Nicolas Cage.
“Juan, you son of a bitch,” Cage said, adjusting his sunglasses dramatically. “I’ve been tracking you since Vlad handed you that tank.”
Juan’s eyes widened. “Nic Cage? You’re real?”
Cage ignored him. “You don’t know what kind of heat you’re bringing down. The plushie game isn’t what it seems. There are forces at play, powerful forces.”
“Are you talking about the global plushie economy?” Brenda asked, skeptically.
Cage narrowed his eyes. “I’m talking about the secret plushie cabal that controls world governments.”
Before we could fully process that lunacy, another car pulled up—this one a luxury limousine. The back door swung open, and out stepped Beyoncé.
Juan immediately lost it. “QUEEN BEE!”
Beyoncé looked at him in disgust and turned to Cage. “Nic, is this the guy?”
Cage nodded gravely. “This is him.”
She sighed. “You owe me for this one. Let’s get him out of here before the real trouble starts.”
At that moment, Juan, as usual, chose chaos. He grabbed a handful of plushies from his backpack and launched them at Cage and Beyoncé. “Nobody takes me alive!” he screamed before running off into the labyrinth of the Casbah.
Brenda looked at me, sighed, and adjusted her camel-hair coat. “Welp. Time to chase his dumb ass again.”
And with that, we ran after him, leaving Nic Cage and Beyoncé standing there, both looking like they deeply regretted getting involved.
Juan had one goal in Algeria: to set up a plushie trading post in the Casbah. Brenda, however, had already put out feelers for her next business venture—she wanted to open a “Mediterranean Fusion” lasagna stand in the middle of the Sahara, because, as she put it, “Who wouldn’t want a steaming hot plate of cheese and noodles while wandering the dunes?”
Before either of them could put their ridiculous plans into action, a black SUV pulled up beside us. The tinted window rolled down, revealing none other than Nicolas Cage.
“Juan, you son of a bitch,” Cage said, adjusting his sunglasses dramatically. “I’ve been tracking you since Vlad handed you that tank.”
Juan’s eyes widened. “Nic Cage? You’re real?”
Cage ignored him. “You don’t know what kind of heat you’re bringing down. The plushie game isn’t what it seems. There are forces at play, powerful forces.”
“Are you talking about the global plushie economy?” Brenda asked, skeptically.
Cage narrowed his eyes. “I’m talking about the secret plushie cabal that controls world governments.”
Before we could fully process that lunacy, another car pulled up—this one a luxury limousine. The back door swung open, and out stepped Beyoncé.
Juan immediately lost it. “QUEEN BEE!”
Beyoncé looked at him in disgust and turned to Cage. “Nic, is this the guy?”
Cage nodded gravely. “This is him.”
She sighed. “You owe me for this one. Let’s get him out of here before the real trouble starts.”
At that moment, Juan, as usual, chose chaos. He grabbed a handful of plushies from his backpack and launched them at Cage and Beyoncé. “Nobody takes me alive!” he screamed before running off into the labyrinth of the Casbah.
Brenda looked at me, sighed, and adjusted her camel-hair coat. “Welp. Time to chase his dumb ass again.”
And with that, we ran after him, leaving Nic Cage and Beyoncé standing there, both looking like they deeply regretted getting involved.
SoupNazi
Global Moderator
- Feb 6, 2010
- 27,765
- 18,853
The Plushie Cabal
We barreled through the narrow, winding streets of the Algiers Casbah, dodging vendors, stray cats, and the occasional goat as we pursued Juan. He had a surprising amount of stamina for a man who consumed nothing but lasagna and Millerades.“I swear to God,” Brenda huffed, vaulting over a cart full of dates, “if he gets us on another international watchlist, I’m feeding him to a camel.”
Juan, still clutching his backpack of plushies, made a hard right and vanished down an alley. By the time we caught up, he had already climbed halfway up a crumbling brick wall in what could only be described as the slowest, most pathetic parkour attempt in history.
“Juan,” I called, panting, “you’re not Spider-Man. Get down before you break something important.”
Brenda grabbed a rock and chucked it at him, hitting him square in the back. “That’s for making me run, you sack of expired ravioli!”
Juan lost his grip and tumbled backward, landing in a pile of trash. Before we could celebrate, a group of shadowy figures emerged from the darkness, surrounding us. They were dressed in sleek black suits, each one wearing an identical plushie pin on their lapel.
“Uh,” I whispered, “I think we just found Nic Cage’s secret plushie cabal.”
One of the men stepped forward, adjusting his tie. “Juan Garcia. Brenda Plushero. You’ve meddled in affairs beyond your understanding.”
Juan gasped. “Is this because I tried to pay Shohei Ohtani in plushies?”
The man ignored him. “We’ve been watching you ever since you entered the plushie economy. Your factory in Russia, your plushie casino in Vegas, even your failed attempt at creating ‘General Freedom’s North Korean Sushi Bar’—”
Brenda threw up her hands. “That was one time!”
“We cannot allow you to continue,” the man continued. “Your actions threaten the stability of the plushie market worldwide.”
Juan, ever the genius, held up a plush eagle. “What if… we settled this with a plushie duel?”
Brenda groaned. “Juan, not everything is solved with plushies!”
But the cabal leader nodded. “Very well.”
Two men stepped forward, each holding a plushie. One was a stuffed koala. The other, a stuffed giraffe.
“We fight at dawn.”
Brenda and I stared in disbelief as Juan pumped his fist in victory. “Time to show these fools what I’m made of!”
I had no idea how we had gotten here, but if Juan was about to fight a secret plushie cabal in a high-stakes stuffed animal battle, I was not about to miss it.
SoupNazi
Global Moderator
- Feb 6, 2010
- 27,765
- 18,853
The Plushie Duel of Algiers
Dawn broke over Algiers, painting the sky in hues of gold and crimson. The city was waking up, but we were already wide awake, standing in an abandoned courtyard deep in the Casbah. The Plushie Cabal had gathered.Juan stood in the center, sweating profusely. Across from him, his opponent, a tall man in a sharp black suit, held a plush giraffe like it was a weapon of mass destruction.
“Juan, I can’t believe you agreed to this,” I muttered.
Brenda crossed her arms. “Oh, I can. This is the same idiot who tried to pay for a Michelin-star meal with a stuffed corgi.”
Juan ignored us, rolling his shoulders. “Alright, let’s get this over with.”
A man in a bowler hat, presumably the referee, stepped forward. “The rules are simple. First one to knock the other’s plushie out of their hands wins. No biting, no eye-gouging, and no bribing the ref with lasagna.”
Brenda scowled. “That’s oddly specific.”
Juan and his opponent took their stances. The air was tense.
“Three…”
Juan adjusted his grip on Mr. Freedom, his trusty plush eagle.
“Two…”
The opponent narrowed his eyes.
“One…”
Chaos erupted.
Juan lunged, swinging Mr. Freedom in a wild arc. The opponent sidestepped effortlessly and smacked Juan in the facewith the giraffe’s soft plush head.
Juan stumbled back, dazed.
“He’s already losing,” Brenda groaned.
Juan, regaining his composure, charged forward again, waving Mr. Freedom like a medieval knight. The opponent expertly dodged every strike, countering with plushie jabs to Juan’s ribs.
The cabal members watched silently, their faces unreadable.
“Come on, Juan!” I shouted. “Use your limited athletic ability!”
Brenda cupped her hands around her mouth. “This ain’t hockey, moron, stop checking the air!”
Finally, Juan made one last desperate move. He faked left, spun in a full circle, and—completely by accident—smacked the giraffe plushie out of his opponent’s hands.
The courtyard went dead silent.
Juan blinked. “Wait… did I just win?”
The bowler-hatted referee sighed. “Winner… Juan Garcia.”
The cabal members exchanged glances. The leader stepped forward, nodding.
“You have proven yourself… worthy.”
Juan puffed out his chest. “Damn right I did.”
The leader leaned in. “However… now that you’ve beaten us, you must take responsibility for your actions.”
Juan frowned. “Huh?”
A black van screeched into the courtyard. Men in suits stepped out, grabbing Juan and shoving him inside.
Brenda grabbed my arm. “OH HELL NO.”
She yanked me forward, and we both jumped into the van after Juan.
Before we could fight back, someone shoved black hoods over our heads.
The last thing I heard was Juan nervously whispering, “Uh… guys? I think I might’ve messed up.”
Several Hours Later…
When the hoods were finally removed, I realized we were inside an airplane.Brenda groaned. “Where the hell are we?”
A grinning Juan sat across from us, feet kicked up, sipping a can of Millerade.
“Don’t worry, guys,” he said. “I picked the destination this time.”
Brenda and I exchanged horrified looks.
“Juan,” I asked, dreading the answer, “where the hell are we going?”
Juan winked.
“You’ll see.”
SoupNazi
Global Moderator
- Feb 6, 2010
- 27,765
- 18,853
The plane touched down smoothly, but I had no idea where we were. Juan had kept the destination a secret, grinning smugly the entire flight. Brenda, surprisingly, had gone along with it, busying herself by coming up with new lasagna recipes inspired by our in-flight meal (which was, according to her, “a banger of a dry sock”).
As we stepped onto the tarmac, I saw the sign: Welcome to Reading, Pennsylvania—Taylor Swift’s hometown.
Brenda let out a dramatic gasp. “Oh my stars and garters! Are we here to see Miss Taylor Alison Swift?”
Juan puffed out his chest. “We are here to sell plushies of Miss Taylor Alison Swift… and her big, burly, football-playing man.” He whipped out a duffel bag full of them—miniature Taylors in sparkly outfits and Travis Kelces with a plush football stitched to their hands.
I groaned. “Juan, you do realize you can’t just sell unlicensed Taylor Swift plushies, right?”
He scoffed. “Please, what’s she gonna do? Write a breakup song about me? If anything, she should thank me for expanding her brand.”
Brenda nodded in agreement. “She does love capitalism.”
It didn’t take long for things to go sideways. Juan set up shop outside a coffee house downtown, advertising the plushies with a cardboard sign that read: SWIFTIES & KELCE KINGS—ONLY $49.99 EACH!
Within minutes, a group of die-hard Swifties swarmed us. Some were intrigued. Some were enraged. One girl started sobbing at the sight of the Travis plushie, muttering something about “the love story of our generation.”
“See?” Juan beamed. “I get the people.”
That’s when the police arrived.
Apparently, selling unauthorized Taylor Swift merchandise is taken very seriously in Reading, Pennsylvania. A stern-looking officer stepped out of the patrol car and pointed directly at Juan. “Sir, do you have a permit to sell these?”
Juan, without missing a beat, did his new signature move—the Skibidi Plush Dance—and tried to moonwalk away.
It did not work.
Five minutes later, Juan was in handcuffs, Brenda was arguing that lasagna should be legal tender, and I was, once again, wondering how my life had come to this.
Then, just when I thought it couldn’t get weirder, a sleek black car rolled up. The window lowered, and a familiar voice called out—
“Hey, what the hell is going on here?”
It was Travis Kelce.
And sitting in the passenger seat, shaking her head in utter confusion? Taylor Swift.
As we stepped onto the tarmac, I saw the sign: Welcome to Reading, Pennsylvania—Taylor Swift’s hometown.
Brenda let out a dramatic gasp. “Oh my stars and garters! Are we here to see Miss Taylor Alison Swift?”
Juan puffed out his chest. “We are here to sell plushies of Miss Taylor Alison Swift… and her big, burly, football-playing man.” He whipped out a duffel bag full of them—miniature Taylors in sparkly outfits and Travis Kelces with a plush football stitched to their hands.
I groaned. “Juan, you do realize you can’t just sell unlicensed Taylor Swift plushies, right?”
He scoffed. “Please, what’s she gonna do? Write a breakup song about me? If anything, she should thank me for expanding her brand.”
Brenda nodded in agreement. “She does love capitalism.”
It didn’t take long for things to go sideways. Juan set up shop outside a coffee house downtown, advertising the plushies with a cardboard sign that read: SWIFTIES & KELCE KINGS—ONLY $49.99 EACH!
Within minutes, a group of die-hard Swifties swarmed us. Some were intrigued. Some were enraged. One girl started sobbing at the sight of the Travis plushie, muttering something about “the love story of our generation.”
“See?” Juan beamed. “I get the people.”
That’s when the police arrived.
Apparently, selling unauthorized Taylor Swift merchandise is taken very seriously in Reading, Pennsylvania. A stern-looking officer stepped out of the patrol car and pointed directly at Juan. “Sir, do you have a permit to sell these?”
Juan, without missing a beat, did his new signature move—the Skibidi Plush Dance—and tried to moonwalk away.
It did not work.
Five minutes later, Juan was in handcuffs, Brenda was arguing that lasagna should be legal tender, and I was, once again, wondering how my life had come to this.
Then, just when I thought it couldn’t get weirder, a sleek black car rolled up. The window lowered, and a familiar voice called out—
“Hey, what the hell is going on here?”
It was Travis Kelce.
And sitting in the passenger seat, shaking her head in utter confusion? Taylor Swift.
John Price
pro gambler/drinker
- Sep 19, 2008
- 389,415
- 32,292
Book 2, Chapter 1: The Meeting at Sando
Tom Sandoval sat alone in the dimly lit shell of what would soon be Sando. The exposed beams, unfinished bar, and the faint scent of freshly cut wood and drywall dust surrounded him. The space was still nothing more than an empty vision, but to Tom, it already had a soul.
He leaned back against a makeshift seat—a stack of lumber that would soon become part of the bar’s signature booths. A single construction light cast long shadows across the bare concrete floor. He had spent the last hour just sitting here, imagining the future. The clinking of glasses, the laughter, the music—it was all so clear in his mind.
Then, from the entrance, a deep voice cut through the silence.
“I figured I might find you here.”
Tom turned his head, and there stood Ridge Forrester, dressed in his usual effortlessly stylish ensemble—a black button-up, slightly unbuttoned at the top, and dark-wash jeans that somehow looked tailored to perfection.
Tom smirked, pushing himself up from his seat. “Ridge. What brings you here?”
Ridge stepped inside, his eyes scanning the unfinished space. He nodded to himself, as if already seeing the potential in what was to come. “Had a feeling you’d be here. The night after a big announcement, this is where a man comes to remind himself what he’s actually building.”
Tom chuckled. “Yeah… something like that.” He gestured around the room. “Still a long way to go, but I can already picture it.”
Ridge took a slow walk around the space, running his hand along an unfinished bar top. “It’s got promise,” he said with a nod. “Vegas is a tricky place, though. You gotta have an angle, something unique. What’s Sando’s play?”
Tom shrugged, leaning against the bar. “It’s all about atmosphere. Something different from the usual spots. Live music, a killer cocktail program, and an energy that people want to come back to. I don’t want this to be just another bar—I want it to be a place people remember.”
Ridge smirked. “That’s a good start. Just don’t get too caught up in the dream before you deal with the reality.” He tapped the bar twice, as if knocking for good luck.
Tom crossed his arms. “You didn’t just come down here to check out my unfinished bar, did you?”
Ridge exhaled, rubbing his jaw. “No… I didn’t.”
He paused for a moment, his expression shifting to something more serious.
“It’s about Taylor.”
Tom frowned. “Everything alright?”
Ridge hesitated, then shook his head. “She’s been dealing with… some things. Stress. Her health’s been up and down, and I think everything over the last few years has finally caught up to her. I won’t get into details, but let’s just say—I’m worried about her.”
Tom could sense the weight in Ridge’s voice. This wasn’t the smooth, confident fashion mogul standing before him—this was a man concerned about someone he cared about.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Tom said sincerely. “If there’s anything I can do—”
Ridge waved him off. “Nah. Just needed to say it out loud. She’s strong, she’ll get through it.” He sighed, shaking off the thought. “But enough about that. This is your moment, man. You’ve got something big here, and I hope it works out for you.”
Tom nodded, appreciating the sentiment.
Ridge turned toward the entrance, then looked back. “Just stay focused. Vegas will chew you up if you’re not paying attention.”
Tom smirked. “I think I can handle myself.”
Ridge chuckled. “We’ll see.” He gave one last nod before disappearing out the door, leaving Tom alone once again in the unfinished dream that was Sando.
Tom exhaled, glancing back at the space around him. The conversation with Ridge had reminded him of something:
Success wasn’t just about vision. It was about execution.
And now? It was time to get to work.
To be continued…
Tom Sandoval sat alone in the dimly lit shell of what would soon be Sando. The exposed beams, unfinished bar, and the faint scent of freshly cut wood and drywall dust surrounded him. The space was still nothing more than an empty vision, but to Tom, it already had a soul.
He leaned back against a makeshift seat—a stack of lumber that would soon become part of the bar’s signature booths. A single construction light cast long shadows across the bare concrete floor. He had spent the last hour just sitting here, imagining the future. The clinking of glasses, the laughter, the music—it was all so clear in his mind.
Then, from the entrance, a deep voice cut through the silence.
“I figured I might find you here.”
Tom turned his head, and there stood Ridge Forrester, dressed in his usual effortlessly stylish ensemble—a black button-up, slightly unbuttoned at the top, and dark-wash jeans that somehow looked tailored to perfection.
Tom smirked, pushing himself up from his seat. “Ridge. What brings you here?”
Ridge stepped inside, his eyes scanning the unfinished space. He nodded to himself, as if already seeing the potential in what was to come. “Had a feeling you’d be here. The night after a big announcement, this is where a man comes to remind himself what he’s actually building.”
Tom chuckled. “Yeah… something like that.” He gestured around the room. “Still a long way to go, but I can already picture it.”
Ridge took a slow walk around the space, running his hand along an unfinished bar top. “It’s got promise,” he said with a nod. “Vegas is a tricky place, though. You gotta have an angle, something unique. What’s Sando’s play?”
Tom shrugged, leaning against the bar. “It’s all about atmosphere. Something different from the usual spots. Live music, a killer cocktail program, and an energy that people want to come back to. I don’t want this to be just another bar—I want it to be a place people remember.”
Ridge smirked. “That’s a good start. Just don’t get too caught up in the dream before you deal with the reality.” He tapped the bar twice, as if knocking for good luck.
Tom crossed his arms. “You didn’t just come down here to check out my unfinished bar, did you?”
Ridge exhaled, rubbing his jaw. “No… I didn’t.”
He paused for a moment, his expression shifting to something more serious.
“It’s about Taylor.”
Tom frowned. “Everything alright?”
Ridge hesitated, then shook his head. “She’s been dealing with… some things. Stress. Her health’s been up and down, and I think everything over the last few years has finally caught up to her. I won’t get into details, but let’s just say—I’m worried about her.”
Tom could sense the weight in Ridge’s voice. This wasn’t the smooth, confident fashion mogul standing before him—this was a man concerned about someone he cared about.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Tom said sincerely. “If there’s anything I can do—”
Ridge waved him off. “Nah. Just needed to say it out loud. She’s strong, she’ll get through it.” He sighed, shaking off the thought. “But enough about that. This is your moment, man. You’ve got something big here, and I hope it works out for you.”
Tom nodded, appreciating the sentiment.
Ridge turned toward the entrance, then looked back. “Just stay focused. Vegas will chew you up if you’re not paying attention.”
Tom smirked. “I think I can handle myself.”
Ridge chuckled. “We’ll see.” He gave one last nod before disappearing out the door, leaving Tom alone once again in the unfinished dream that was Sando.
Tom exhaled, glancing back at the space around him. The conversation with Ridge had reminded him of something:
Success wasn’t just about vision. It was about execution.
And now? It was time to get to work.
To be continued…
John Price
pro gambler/drinker
- Sep 19, 2008
- 389,415
- 32,292
PanthersPens62
Paul & Stanley
SoupNazi
Global Moderator
- Feb 6, 2010
- 27,765
- 18,853
GIADF
Not A Mod
- Aug 17, 2024
- 3,187
- 3,674
John Price
pro gambler/drinker
- Sep 19, 2008
- 389,415
- 32,292
John Price
pro gambler/drinker
- Sep 19, 2008
- 389,415
- 32,292
Indiana stuns MSU, denies Izzo shot to pass Knight
Indiana beat No. 11 Michigan State 71-67 on Tuesday night, leaving Tom Izzo with 353 Big Ten victories to stay tied with Bob Knight a little longer.
Pro drinkers especially don’t drink only half a beer or half a drink like a little bitch
GIADF
Not A Mod
- Aug 17, 2024
- 3,187
- 3,674
Or anyone with dignity and self-respect.
Sega Dreamcast
party like it's 1999
The only time to resume drinking a half-empty beer is the morning after, for the hair of the dog.
In his case, he'd be hungover after 2 and a half beers, so it's the hair of the plushy.
In his case, he'd be hungover after 2 and a half beers, so it's the hair of the plushy.
John Price
pro gambler/drinker
- Sep 19, 2008
- 389,415
- 32,292
I bet he calls it “The fluff of Babe Woof”…
Sega Dreamcast
party like it's 1999
Wakes up, surrounded by plushies and two empty beer cans.
"What the hell happened last night?"
Not to mention no real drinker mixes their Gatorade with anything.
Especially light beer FFS….
Gatorade is for the morning after.
Well…assuming you’ve had more than 2 beers the night before.
Especially light beer FFS….
Gatorade is for the morning after.
Well…assuming you’ve had more than 2 beers the night before.
John Price
pro gambler/drinker
- Sep 19, 2008
- 389,415
- 32,292
