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Fantastic word game

Satisfied customers will usually come back for more of the same.
 
Existence of the advisory sign, sittin' die-rectly in front of the Vermont Boudoir's doorway, is there fer a specific reason, and it simply explains to you that "riders exceeding 5 feet tall are strictly prohibited."

Hey, once you've gone petite, no one else makes you feel complete.
 
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Prohibited items on airplanes include sharp objects (of which I am not one), guns & firearms, explosive or flammable items, sporting goods, tools, and martial arts & self-defense items.
 
Was the song, at its core, just coverin' all o' the various encounters you'll eventually face in your lifetime?

I mean, that's what I've always reckoned.
 
The room service menu here at the Listener Lodge includes hard-boiled eggs, courtesy of Charlize the Chickadee, which, our guests tell me, are delicious but awfully tiny.
 
Tiny squab sure won't fill many bellies, but it's a hell of a good start fer The Listener Lodge.

All our adoration and support, from the semi-famous RCM Ranch, and do let us know if there's anything you need on loan to keep them there doors open, n' a lobby full of hind ends.

Let me tell you, and this'll be one o' the rare occasions I drop the character fer y'all....

Scanman, that was freaking awesome, bud. 100% Lone Star approved!
 
Aspiring young comedians looking to impress me with their impressions of (T)FWG celebrities in hopes of landing a gig here might start by talking in an exaggerated Texas redneck accent as they make numerous hilarious linguistic errors, including mistaking a chickadee for a pigeon.

I tell you what, though, rose. My Charlize, a chickadee from wingtip to wingtip, was not amused at your suggestion that her eggs somehow hatch into flying rats.
 
Pidgin languages, such as Lose-e-anna Creole, are somethin' I'm not sure any o' us are prepared fer at Fantastic Word Game, but if we come across a swamp dwellin' Cajun ever enterin' our front door, I'll make sure to add some translation duties to my agenda.

Coupé zoré milet fait pas cheval.

Now, fer those o' you that ain't pro-fishint in the swampland's dialect, I'm sure sorry 'bout that, but I can't translate it since it involves a couple o' unmentionable dwellers. The Google (here's lookin' at ya, Stuart) is yer friend.

As fer them there flyin' rat eggs, they ain't eggs a' tall, Linguistics Czar. I wouldn't go confusin' 'em, anymore than you should go fryin' 'em up in the Lodge's cast iron skillet, fer sure n' certain.

Edit to add: it ain't all THAT exaggerated, compadre. 😉
 
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My agenda, as does everyone else's here, includes making WMC's head explode, and to that end, I hereby introduce Manfred the Moose to the ever-expanding (T)FWG menagerie, and warn rcm, especially, that this critter has nothing at all to do with pigeons, rats or mousse.
 
Thanks to the investigative work of the new Department of Band Camp Efficiency (DOBCE), mousse will no longer be offered, but, thanks to yours truly, Pot de Crème will be added to the menu.
 


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