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Fantastic word game

Say, CT, you'll hafta forgive me fer that last "today" in my previous submission, but did ya really have to make that par-ticular comparison?

Hey, we all swing n' miss on occasion. That one was just one o' mine.

Y'all let me know when to expect my cut o' the royalties on this here "Freezer o' Doom". The boudoir has officially named it, by gum, but The RCM Ranch created it, stuck the first pound o' ground round in it, n' delivered it (in the Rose City Express, nonetheless) to the sandy badlands of SW Florida.
 
Joy is beginning to turn to sorrow when I see what my freezer used to be and what it has apparently now become, thanks to some very shocking changes.

First, it was just a freezer with a pound o' ground round in it. Then came the pork and the chicken. Still no big deal. But now, apparently, it has become known as something from the Addams Family or the Munsters, complete with brains. "Freezer o' Doom!" they call it now. Maybe it should be called the Little Freezer of Horrors.

I should have spelled "methinks" as "me thinks" (two words) which would have avoided those accusations of changing the beginning clue, but that would also have alerted the authorities to some serious linguistic offenses.
 
Some very shocking changes are in store fer the New Illusions, this Saturday night, as our ol' friends CT n' Kayla will be openin' up a pop-up kiosk at the front door fer patrons wishin' to purchase a few somethin's from their extensive gummy line.

Half-off fer anyone signin' on to help them carry out the infernal hunk o' buckin' steel.
 
Their extensive gummy line sales will most likely lead to a significant boost in items purchased from the volunteer-run snack shack which donates all proceeds to a summer rodeo camp for special needs children.
 
The volunteer-run snack shack which donates all proceeds to a summer rodeo camp for special needs children would probably not be interested in taking any donations from my esteemed Freezer of Doom.

...or FoD, as some many will probably soon prefer.
 
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My esteemed Freezer of Doom does not exist, so anyone wishing to grab something from it will have to visit our friend, Ed, whom I would kindly encourage to share his home address so we do not show up in the wrong place.
 
Show up in the wrong place, and you might miss out on some delicious and tasty morsels from the freezer.

The freezer is in the secret underground bunker.
 
During a heat spell, a bunch of Popsicles or ice cream sandwiches would look a whole lot better to those freezer frequenters than meat and brains would, don't you think?
 
Don't you think that you should leave the mechanical bull alone because, if not, HOSS scanman's crackerjack security team plus a few burly guys from town will put a hurtin' on you something fierce.
 
Put a hurtin' on you something fierce, I will, if'n you're ever caught wearin' my 10-gallon Stetson hat on your head.

That's somethin' a low-down, rotten scoundrel would do. Like not ending a question with a question mark. Don't you think?

Keep yer Popsicles. If'n it ain't meat in the freezer at the ranch, it'd be warm beer bein' quickly cooled down.
 
Someone who wishes to have you killed will do all sorts of planning and research to make sure they know the where, the when and the how.

rosecity, my previous contribution was a declarative statement, not a question, even though it started with 'don't you think'. No question mark needed in this case.
 
The where, the when and the how don't matter to this ornery ol' cuss, but the why might be o' concern to the local deputies when the body is found downriver n' lookin' like a hunk o' swiss cheese.

'cuz that's what a 30.06'll do to you, after puttin' a bounty on this here Stetson-wearin' cranium.

Dee-clarative statement, eh? Then I declare that I wanna speak to the manager handlin' this here dee-partment.
 
Lookin' like a hunk o' Swiss cheese after losin' his match to "Dump Truck" Wallace, with spit drippin' from his face n' feelin' the chafin' sensation from his soiled britches, "Fightin' Jake Fletcher" searched the Yeller Pages fer his feller southwestern Floridian, Mr. Ed, n' inquired 'bout monthly pricin' fer The Freezer o' Doom (FoD, as we now know it) in an attempt to put his next opponent on ice.


They sure 'nuff know how to deliver a righteous promo down in Tampa, I'll tell you what.

3 demerits on myself fer the lack o' capitalism on Swiss. I should know better, bein' somewhere close to a cheese connoisseur.
 
If that's your thing sittin' in the back lot under the shade tree in the corner, then it's high time fer you to get yerself back out there n' pull it the hell outta my parking spot.

Can't you read? Redneck reserved. Big ol' truck parkin' only!
 
My parking spot is where ever I choose to leave my car, and usually, that's far away from pick'em up trucks sportin' gun racks, Confederate flags, and bumper stickers proclaiming that the owner of the vee-hicle is just a redneck with a paycheck.
 


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