Useless Thread MMX: Capitals are worthless divers un-appreciation thread

[End of Line]

 

[John Price]

team from Cancun talking shit

 

[John Price]

 

[John Price]

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[John Price]

 

[John Price]

 

[John Price]

idiots in that tweet chain implying the covid vaccine leads to heart disease

are you f***ing dumb

 

[John Price]

 

[John Price]

 

[John Price]

 

[John Price]

Deputy McRizzy favorite pasttime...

 

[John Price]

@MetalheadPenguinsFan at Walmart.ca...

 

[John Price]

@End of Line favorite pasttime...

 

[Deputy McRizzy]

Deputy McRizzy favorite pasttime...

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At least I can ride a bike. Doubt you even can.

 

[John Price]

 

[Oogie Boogie]

We love Fridays!

 

[John Price]

Wheels and Words in the Woods

Roy pedaled steadily through the winding forest trail, his muscles working in rhythm with the soft hum of rubber on packed dirt. Sunlight flickered through the trees above, dappling the path ahead in shifting patches of gold. Seated snugly in a front-mounted baby seat was his son, **Quintaveous**—barely a year old, with big brown eyes, a mop of curly black hair, and the calm presence of someone who trusted completely in the strength and rhythm of his father's movements.

The two were alone in the woods, save for birdsong and the occasional rustle of leaves. Roy had taken the day off—he needed the break. Lately, the city had felt more suffocating than usual. Drivers honking as he biked to work, people grumbling when he passed too close, a woman once even yelling at him to "buy a car like a normal person." Today, the trees were kinder. No horns. No glares.

As he rounded a bend, Roy braked sharply. Ahead on the trail stood two people—one tall man in athleisure gear and aviators, and a blonde woman in leggings and an immaculate white hoodie. They paused, startled, as Roy came to a halt a few feet away.

"Hey!" the man said, stepping aside. "Didn’t hear you coming."

Roy exhaled, nodding. "Sorry about that. Trail's a little narrow through here."

"All good," said the man, offering a hand. "Tom."

Roy shook it. "Roy."

The woman smiled briefly. "Hope," she said, before glancing down at **Quintaveous**. "Cute kid."

"Thanks," Roy said, pride flashing across his face. "He loves being out here. Better than trying to share the road with impatient drivers all day."

Tom chuckled. "Yeah, city drivers are brutal. I gave up biking years ago."

Roy shook his head. "It’s insane. People act like you’re in the way just for existing. They’ll brush past you at 40 miles per hour and act like *you’re* the problem. I’ve had mirrors clipped. Yelled at. Once, a guy threw a soda at me—for being in the bike lane."

Hope crossed her arms. "Maybe you're just biking in the wrong places. You could always use the damn sidewalk."

Roy’s brows lifted, caught off guard. "The sidewalk? You know that’s illegal in half the city, right? And dangerous? People walk with strollers, dogs—"

"Well," Hope interrupted, "maybe you'd get fewer sodas thrown at you."

Tom raised his hands. "Whoa, hey, everyone breathe. We’re in the woods. Let’s all pretend to be relaxed humans for five minutes."

Roy looked at him, then at Hope, who was already checking her phone. **Quintaveous** cooed softly, eyes following a bird flitting past.

"Relaxed humans," Roy echoed, a little bitterly. "Right."

He took a deep breath, clipped his helmet tighter, and eased his bike forward. "C’mon, **Quintaveous**. Let’s find a world where sidewalks aren’t the only safe place for us."

As they rolled past, Tom gave a sheepish wave. Hope said nothing.

Roy didn’t look back. The forest welcomed them again, its silence more honest than any sidewalk.

 

[John Price]

We love Fridays!

Beer Friday

 

[Oogie Boogie]

Beer Friday

I'm thinking Sushi Friday

 

[John Price]

Beer Friday, But Make It Dry


Roy didn’t even remember how he ended up in Utah. One minute he was riding through the forest, Quintaveous napping in the baby carrier as birds sang above. The next, he was checking into a roadside motel outside of Salt Lake City, fueled by a spontaneous cross-state road trip and a growing urge for one thing: beer.


It was Beer Friday—his own made-up holiday. A weekly ritual he swore by. No matter what the world threw at him—bike-lane rage, Hope Logan’s sidewalk snark, or the stress of parenting—Beer Friday was sacred. The rules were simple: find a cold one, sit down, and forget the chaos for a while.


He found a bar with wood paneling and neon signs promising "Cold Drinks" and "Game Nights." Promising. Until he sat down and looked at the menu.


Roy squinted. "Uh... where's the beer?"


The bartender, a thin man with a clean-cut look and a name tag that read “Elder Greg,” smiled politely. "We have near beer. It’s 3.2% alcohol by weight—just like the law allows."


Roy blinked. "Near beer?"


"It’s real beer, just… less sinful."


Roy leaned back slowly, disbelief washing over him like a warm can of O'Doul's. "Wait, hold up. I crossed two state lines, got a flat tire in Nevada, drove past like 900 temples, and you’re telling me I can’t even get drunk?"


Elder Greg nodded, cheerful. "We take moderation very seriously here. It’s a spiritual thing."


Roy ran a hand down his face. "Man, I don’t want to moderate. I want to forget that a woman named Hope Logan told me to 'use the damn sidewalk' like I wasn’t trying to raise a Black child safely in this cracked-up country. I want to erase the mental image of Tom Sandoval’s smug little 'I do yoga now' face. I want beer—the kind that makes you text your ex and then immediately regret it."


A couple of patrons at a nearby table looked over nervously. Quintaveous, strapped to Roy’s chest in a baby carrier, blinked slowly and then sneezed.


Elder Greg offered a sympathetic shrug. "There’s always soda. We have a great root beer."


Roy stared blankly. “Root beer on Beer Friday... in a bar.”


He stood up, sighed, and muttered, “This state needs a rebellion.”


Grabbing a cold root beer with visible reluctance, Roy stepped outside. The sunset over the mountains was, of course, stunning—Utah's final insult.


“Don’t worry, Q,” Roy said to Quintaveous, cracking open the bottle. “When you grow up, we’re gonna go somewhere that serves real beer on Beer Friday. Somewhere they don’t judge a man for needing to check out once a week.”


Quintaveous blew a raspberry in agreement.

 

[John Price]

ACTION FIGURE: DEPUTY McRIZZY™ – Trail Enforcer Edition


From the “Backroad Justice” Series – Wave 1

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INCLUDES:


Deputy McRizzy™ Figure

• Fully articulated 6” bald hero with high-performance neon biking spandex
• Tactical shades molded on for permanent cool
• Utility belt with space for snack bars and tiny citations

Black Baby Sidekick: "Quint"™

• Removable baby carrier backpack
• Rotating head and adorable side-eye expression
• Fits perfectly in front-mount bike seat

Custom Trail Bike

• Real rolling wheels
• Mud-splatter paint deco
• Built-in bottle holder

Beer Bottle Accessory

• Labeled “Root-ish Lager” for legal reasons
• Can be clipped into McRizzy’s hand or stowed in the bike rack

Special Features:

• “Rage Ride” voice chip: Press the button and hear McRizzy yell iconic lines like:
  
  • “Sidewalks are for strollers, not freedom!”
  • “It’s Beer Friday, baby!”
  • “Pedal justice never sleeps!”

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BACK OF THE BOX LORE:


Once a mild-mannered bike courier in a disrespectful world, Roy “McRizzy” McAllister was deputized by destiny after a run-in with Tom Sandoval and Hope Logan. Now, with his sidekick Quint and a cold bottle of barely-legal brew, Deputy McRizzy patrols the woods, enforcing respect for bikers and calling out weak sidewalk logic wherever it lurks.

 

[Oogie Boogie]

?

 

[John Price]

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The adventures of Roy and "Quint"...coming soon to a UT near you!

 

[End of Line]

Sounds like you wish you had his life

 

[John Price]

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Title: Beer Friday Breakdown at Jackie O’s


It was Beer Friday, and Paul had been waiting all week.


A born-and-bred Ohio State fan with a scarlet-and-gray windbreaker and an O-H tattoo behind his ear, he walked into Jackie O’s in Columbus like a man entering church. The bar buzzed with low conversation, pool balls clacking in the back, and a jukebox rolling through classic rock hits. Paul beelined toward the bar, nodding solemnly to the bartender.


“Yuengling. Coldest one you’ve got.”


He took his first sip like it was a sacrament. All was right. All was Ohio.


Then he saw her.


Sitting at the far end of the bar was a woman, legs crossed, sipping a draft beer with the calm detachment of a Zen monk. She was wearing a University of Michigan sweatshirt—bright maize letters against deep navy, the unmistakable M bold on her chest.


Paul froze, glass halfway to his lips.


She didn’t look up. She didn’t need to. The blue and gold was loud enough on its own.


He turned to the bartender, aghast. “You letting that in here now?”


The bartender raised an eyebrow. “It’s a public bar, Paul.”


Paul’s face turned the color of an angry tomato. He stomped over, planting himself a foot from the woman, who still hadn’t acknowledged him.


“You know what day it is?”


She blinked slowly. “Friday.”


“Beer Friday. In Columbus. And you walk in here with a Michigan shirt like you own the place?”


She took a sip of her beer. Didn’t even glance at him. "Nice place. Good pour."


“Oh, you think this is funny?” Paul shouted. “You think 2006 was fair? You think Desmond Howard didn’t cheat that Heisman?! You think Harbaugh’s not buying refs with that khaki blood money?!”


A couple of patrons turned in their seats. One guy chuckled and shook his head. The woman remained serene.


“Nothing to say, huh?” Paul raged. “Typical. Just like you guys on the field. All hype, no delivery.”


Finally, she looked at him—just once. Calm eyes, deadpan.


“Scoreboard,” she said, and sipped her beer.


Paul made a noise somewhere between a scream and a sneeze, threw a crumpled napkin on the ground, and stormed out of the bar, yelling something incoherent about “midwestern betrayal.”


The door slammed behind him.


The woman sighed peacefully, motioned for another pint, and muttered, “Go Blue.”