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Fantastic word game

[Puts on best Godfather accent:]

Tip number one from the Godfather is, "Not leaving a tip is not, if you know what I mean, is not a good idea."

So maybe next time you won't ... "forget," right?
 
Damage one o' those silver belt buckles the Padre mentioned earlier, by usin' an abrasive to clean 'em, n' this ornery ol' redneck would be fit to be tied.

I mean, what would I do come Sunday mornin' n' I accidentally dropped my britches durin' the meetin'? Ain't no cowboy (worth his weight in lactose) runnin' 'round w/a scuffed buckle.
 
His incompetent manager was sent to the unemployment line while the owner decided to go in a different direction.

Good morning, Mr. Director of Early Morning Contributions (EMC as most prefer). Nice to see you this morning.
 
A different direction (die-rection, as all rednecks pre-fer), within the game, is where ol' buddy from the land o' sunshine is takin' us right now, what with all the haikus, Bastardly Brackets, Dastardly Dashes, Cantankerous Colons, etc., n' lemme just say that I'm a big fan.

Yeah, a good mornin' to you, Padre. You too, Mister Ed, n' to the Die-rector o' Linguistics (once he crawls outta the boudoir bed), n his Petite Blonde Intern, n' HOSS scanman n' his associates.
 
Work hard at sheddin' some o' those excess pounds n' you, too, can live the lavish life of Sally Rand.

Billie Beck, if'n you prefer.
 
The lavish life of Sally Rand, like that of so many show-biz types, had a dark underside and probably wasn't as "lavish" as you might think.
 
You might think that when she met her demise she was penniless n' friendless, bein' a former burlesque dancer n' all, but there he was to step in and take care o' all her final expenses, debts n' affairs at her passin', n' that kind man's name was Mr. Sammy Davis Jr.
 
Frank Sinatra put an end to that nonsense by explaining to the hotel's manager that he was one phone call away from being fitted for cement overshoes by one of the Chairman of the Board's Cosa Nostra pals.
 
Pals of Frank's told the manager that if he's not careful, he could end up sleeping with the fishes.
 
Sleeping with the fishes likely ended up bein' the fate o' Jimmy Hoffa, yet a fair amount o' folks were absolutely convinced that he was buried within the concrete pillars at Giants Stadium.
 
The concrete pillars at Giants Stadium would – if they could talk – tell us some very interesting stories.

I've read somewhere the woodchipper got him. But who knows, really? Hey, that reminds me, it's time to go check on that freezer...
 
Some very interesting stories come out of this game which can be good or bad depending on how you look at it.

rosecity, thanks for ignoring me this morning. You said good morning to everyone BUT me. And here I thought we had an understanding and semi-tolerance of each other. Guess not.

Meanwhile, the weekend is here and you know what that means. It means two things. One, it's some of the same old-same old, exactly what rosecity likes to see. Two, it means there is another summer-fueled frenzy of a fantastic 80s Rockfest tomorrow night at the new Illusions. Join us tomorrow night in person for a rockin' good time with dancin', eatin', gettin' down with your own bad self, and a little bit of twerky-jerky on the Denny's-sponsored, permanently-guarded mechanical bull. See, rosecity? I talked like you right there. Or, you can join us via the huge PowerWorld livestream. And, early Sunday morning, kenny cooks up some great grub at Denny's. So come on down, we'd love to see you. Have a great weekend!!
 
How you look at it makes all the difference in the world.

I returned yer volley, WMC. You told the Padre it was "nice to see him". So, where was my greetin', I ask you? I was a part o' that 3-way o' Early Mornin' Contributions. Just ask the Die-rector.

I reckon we're bein' awfully civil w/one 'nother, I'll tell you what. I ain't had to call you a varmint in awhile, n' you ain't belly-ached 'bout me in awhile, neither. Here, let's try again.

Good mornin' Mayflower Man. It plumb pleases the dickens outta me to see yer weekly invitation to the inner-workins o' yer unexploded (fer now) cranium.

I really don't mind all o' your PowerWorld mumbo jumbo, but after 18 years, partner, you've kinda become a one trick pony. When was the last time you heard me mention my now dee-ceased heifer Connie? or Henrietta, the know-it-all hen? Or Rosie's Dance Hall & Saloon? The Wagerin' Window? CT brings the animals up, once in awhile, but I don't have to just drill 'em into the ground, partner. You do, 'cuz it's what you've got, and now that I fully realize it, I ain't ragin' over it.

I actually feel sorry I didn't realize it sooner, but hey, that's life on the spectrum.
 
All the difference in the world is what makes the Fantastic Word Game (TFWG as Ed and I prefer) go round and round.

I wasn't ignoring you yesterday morning. I was just focusing on dmargalotti as he is the Die-rector of Early Morning Contributions. But point taken. My one trick (one-trick) pony act is about as world-famous as my Welcome To TFWG speech. You don't like it, don't read it. Which is what I do (or don't do) with your act. Happy Saturday.
 


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