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Fantastic word game

Watercress sandwiches, paired with the citrusy bergamot notes of Earl Grey tea, are currently available in the Department o' Excess' posh reception area, at the behest of the High Chief.

Sake's alive! I shoulda put on my Sunday hat before visitin' the new wing.
 
At the behest of the High Chief, who realized at the reception last night that, having ingested a few too many of the gummies brought to the affair by the Petite Blonde Intern and yours truly, he was too high to drive, a chauffeured limousine was summoned to get him home safely.

High Chief? More like Stoned Chief, if you ask me!
 
Safely returned to his teepee courtesy o' The Rose City Express, I might add, n' at no charge.

Even had a nice spread of forbs n' legumes available on the ride fer his embraceable ewe named Ginger.
 
No charge to y'all fer forcin' redneck contributin' back-to-back, but with the sounds I'm hearin' comin' from the barn this mornin', there oughta be an invoice sent out to all FWGers coverin' the cost o' her therapy.

Ain't nothin' sadder than a lonely heifer, I'll tell you what. A Happy St. Patty's weekend to all, n' how 'bout y'all get off'n yer hineys today n' contribute somethin' Fantastic?
 
Her therapy sessions lately have focused on the root causes of her loneliness, including the loss of her friend Henrietta the Fibbin' Frozen' Hen and the lack of any communication from that man from Massachusetts whose affection she misses.

Poor, sad Connie. Her shrink tells me that if her circumstances back on the ranch don't improve, she might become capable of giving only evaporated milk.
 
She misses WMC roamin' the PowerWorld hallways 'bout as much as you n' the Petite Blonde Intern miss his weekly mentions of the mechanical bull.

Like y'all up there in the Boudoir, she Shirley wouldn't die-vulge that to the general public, but I reckon we all know full-well that it was a heap more excitin' 'round here with The Mayflower Man n' I at odds.

We kinda feel like a family o' Hatfields down here, without a McCoy to fire at, I tell you what.
 
Mentions of the mechanical bull, topless driving, tasty tidbits, TPS Reports, The Lovely Olivia Newton-John, kenrayc, his Denny's grub, the library interns, Illusions and its newer replacement, and all the rest o' the well-worn material that Fantastic Word Game relied on for so many years, were now glaringly apparent what was keeping the game alive, so forgive me for my actions against WMC, and return to the PowerWorld Headquarters, all you that have abandoned it, because the redneck has left the building.

I said I didn't wanna kill the game, but it's my continued presence here that's doin' just that.

A tip o' the hat to those who hopped aboard The Redneck Express. Yer in good standin' with the ol' hayseed.
 
The building remains a grim place, with two of its most prolific and creative personalities now gone, at least three critters dead and a freezer only half full, so, with me feeling almost as lonely as the heifer, I guess there's nothing left for me to do but lock the Listener Lodge door behind me, pop a few gummies, console the intern and ponder eternity while I write TFWG's obituary.
 
Obituary for the Fantastic Word Game (yup, TFWG as most everyone prefers) is a bit premature as meetings, conversations and negotiations continue behind the scenes.

A tentative but hearty welcome back to one and all.
 
Up and running with the friendliest staff in town, we hope to provide you with some fun and frivolity along with your band camp education just like we used to do in the good old days.

Hello scanman. Great to see you!
 
The good old days of TFWG were marked by occasional conflicts over rules and subject matter, but they were nothing that cooperation couldn't overcome.
 
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Overcome with emotion, I have tears in my eyes as I look over the vast PowerWorld landscape.

Welcome back, CT. During my absence and the shutdown, I entertained myself by learning how to juggle. I juggled demerits. They are light and airy (kinda like donuts).
 
See us back in our PowerWorld office, the Petite Blonde intern and myself, me scouring this thread for more linguistic errors, she on the phone, whispering sweet nothings, hoping I won't find out that she's still in clandestine contact with a cow in a faraway barn.
 


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