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Fantastic word game

Weeks from now, we will be watching to see who posts Message No. 50,000.
 
Message No. 50,000 (#50,000, as 10 gallon wearing rednecks everywhere prefer), or a close derivative thereof, was just used as an end clue in the last week, by yours truly, and it's that kind of haphazard gameplay that gets Connie all riled up and dispensing butter.

Dagnabit, Mr. Ed. There ain't no category of demerit assigned to that kinda silliness, but there oughta be.
 
Dispensing butter directly from a cow sounds like a slow, painful process.

Use of recently used clues is more an irritant than a punishable offense, in my opinion. But the Game Czar should have the final word on this issue, as it has nothing to do with linguistics.
 
Dispensing butter is as easy as coming up with new sentences and new clues except for this one time (at band camp) where Ed regurgitated an end clue from Post #49,245 which was just 38 contributions in the past.

It's ok, Ed. You meant well. You were probably saying to yourself, "Self, this clue sounds familiar". :)
 
The past was a time when yesterday was today, but in the future today will be yesterday and tomorrow will be today.

A whole 38 contiributions? You expect my brain to remember that far back? 😆
And what's wrong with dispensing butter? Butter is good on waffles, along with maple syrup. :)
 
Process the fact that, now, both Mister Ed and WMC have flat-out ignored our distinguished Linguistics Czar's end clue, and, that requires your resident redneck to rectify this gaffe by playing from his submission and telling the both of you that your two posts shall go down in the game's history as unrecognized.

Mister Ed, look what you've done gone and started! We're in all sorts of discombobulation now. The redneck (and his heavenly heifer) remembers it all, amigo. 38 posts and you've already put something said here in the rearview?

Holy cow, Connie. I may have to skip the Frosted Flakes this morning and go lay back down. 🤦
 
Unrecognized by both WMC and Ed in their non-submissions was that, in my entry, I was describing the process of getting butter from a cow not as being painful to the consumer of the butter, but to the cow having her sensitive undercarriage pulled in order to extract that delicious pancake topping, which is not liquid (like milk) but semi-solid.
 
Semi-solid wedding rings lead to divorce proceedings.

Hollow bands equal hollow marriages, folks.
 
A prolonged court battle to determine who gets custody of Connie would be pretty devastating, but my primary concern would be who ended up with the 10-gallon hat.

I love my heifer with all my achy, breaky heart, but a redneck simply can't be out in the public eye without his lid on.

Btw, Padre, don't look now, but I suspect there's some h-e-double Ranger emblazoned hockey sticks coming yer way fer the lack of a Perky Period at the end of yer contribution.
 
The 10-gallon hat and Connie might both wind up with WMC, who would turn Connie into sirloin, prime rib and ground chuck, then commission a mechanical cow in Connie's image to be built and placed next to the mechanical bull on the Illusions dance floor for patrons to milk at the same time bull aficionados would be riding.

That hat would look adorable atop Mechanical Connie, too.
 
Riding down to the Guns n' Ammo store, right now, just in case CT has just given WMC any bright ideas.

Son of a gun, compadre. You've got my heifer's demise all planned out. I'm at a loss for words and, by golly, that's rare.
 
Unintended consequences of milking a new Illusions' dance floor adjacent mechanical cow include figuring out which one of you executives are going to crawl underneath it afterwards and thoroughly scrub the floor of all the built-up squirts of gear oil.

After around 30 minutes of milkin' action, that oil's gonna be hotter than a goat's butt in a pepper patch, I'll tell you what.
 
The built-up squirts of gear oil, if used to scrub the floor, would make a real mess of things.

So I see talk of a mechanical bull and a mechanical cow... wow, this is getting interesting!!
 
Nothing at all is preventing me from getting a mechanical Game Czar built and programmed to clean up any messes on the new Illusions' floor and run this game, except for figuring out how to dispose of the now-useless WMC afterward.

Turning him into various cuts of meat has crossed my mind, but who'd eat it?
 
Afterward, so we can all get the answer to the question that the Linguistics Czar has posed, we should all hop on The Netflix and watch Silence of the Lambs.

His liver, of course, will be paired with fava beans and a nice Chianti.
 
Silence of the Lambs is bizarre to discuss so close to Christmas, so I'm switching it up to tunes, because while everybody is playing Christmas tunes, there seem to be those who figure the money is where the oldies are, and that might save the company, but we still hope they never go to classic rock or oldies.
 


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