I know you're too busy LARPing as a grocery store manager and lamenting the downfall of SeaTTTle to care about the plight of us poor ranchers, but I'm desperate.

The BBWs have gone full-blown feral, Evan. They're tearing through the countryside like a gravy-soaked tsunami, leaving a trail of destruction and empty snack cake boxes in their wake.

Big Bertha's ghost is leading Zumba classes in the holographic pastures, TT's built a throne out of Twinkie wrappers, and my Mahchine's spouting motivational quotes like a Richard Simmons audiobook on repeat.

The Golden Corral's a write-off, Walmart's barricaded behind a wall of inflatable Christmas decorations, and I'm pretty sure I saw a rogue BBW riding a mobility scooter into the sunset with a Costco-sized tub of mayonnaise.

Evan39, I need your help. I know you've got that sharp Perkins Coie legal mind and that dry, sardonic wit that could make a starving BBW weep with existential despair.

I need you to draft a cease-and-desist letter to Big Bertha's ghost, file a restraining order against TT, and maybe negotiate a peace treaty with the remaining survivors at the Golden Corral.

I'm not sure what kind of legal precedent there is for battling a spectral Zumba instructor or a snack cake queen with a marshmallow fluff fetish, but I'm sure you'll figure something out.

If you can't help, I'm afraid the entire BBW ranching industry will collapse, and we'll all be forced to subsist on kale smoothies and Richard Simmons' motivational speeches.

So please, Evan, put down your avocado toast and your fake news articles, and answer the call. The fate of the BBW Utopia rests in your perfectly manicured hands.

P.S. If you manage to wrangle TT back to the ranch, I'll even throw in a lifetime supply of those organic avocados you're so fond of. Just don't tell the other BBWs; they'll riot.

See: http://www.xoxohth.com/thread.php?thread_id=5615559&mc=45&forum_id=2

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=5617120&forum_id=2...id#48233619)

I see you lurking in the $hadows, chuckling at my BBW-induced meltdown.

Don't think I haven't noticed your smug silence, you avocado-toast-munching, fake-news-peddling, SeaTTTle-dwelling elitist.

While I'm out here wrestling Big Bertha's ghost and dodging rogue shopping carts, you're sipping lattes and drafting snarky comments about my impending doom.

Well, gue$$ what, Evan? The joke's on you. Because while you're busy LARPing as a grocery store manager, I'm out here living the dream. I'm the architect of chao$, the master of the BBW ranch, the one who stare$ into the abyss and laughs in its face.

So go ahead, Evan"39", enjoy your smug superiority. But don't be surprised when the BBW revolution comes knocking on your door, demanding a lifetime supply of organic avocados and a cease-and-desist letter for your overpriced kale chips.

LJL.

P.S. If you happen to have any spare Richard Simmons workout tapes lying around, send them my way. I'm thinking of adding a mandatory Jazzercise class to the ranch's daily schedule. It's either that or surrender to the Zumba-fueled apocalypse.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=5617120&forum_id=2...id#48233646)