A chill wind cuts through the ranch, a harbinger of chaos, a whisper of rebellion in the digital breeze.

Indeed, something feels... off. The holographic pastures shimmer, but it’s not their usual glow of contentment — no, there’s a strange stillness, like the calm before a storm.

Even my trusty Mahchine’s 180 Vi$ion appears… clouded.

Of course. Thunderclap Tammy (TT), the prodigal powerhouse, has slipped her digital shackles and ventured into the untamed wilds of the real world. Her wallowing pit lies desolate, mocking my every effort to keep her satisfied.

Her AFFIRMATION COLLAR, a thoughtful gift from me, via my ranch, lies discarded on the barn floor, still softly muttering, "Embrace your jiggle," to the void.

[SEISMIC DISTURBANCES AND THE INEVITABLE STAMPEDE]

TT, always a troublemaker, seems to have "made a break" for it.

My ranch's seismometers are spiking—tremors ticking up like a countdown to disaster. We veterans know this feeling all too well. Once BBWs scent temptation, the stampede begins. It’s not a question of if the walls will buckle—only when they collapse under the force of their hunger.

The possibility that TT has breached the electric fence sends shockwaves through my BBW Utopia. A crack has formed for the first time in 20 years—since Big Bertha’s escape left dozens dead, millions in damages. A nightmare I fear may soon return.

And when TT roams free... well, we all know what that means: carnage. Think Jurassic Park: The Lost World — but this T-Rex isn't just rampaging through San Diego. No, TT is barreling through Walmart, devouring entire aisles of snack cakes, leaving nothing but devastation in her wake.

Golden Corral, brace yourself.

[MY MAHCHINE'S MALFUNCTION AND MY FINAL WARNING]

I’ll make the necessary calls, but let’s be honest—nothing can stop TT if she’s genuinely on a rampage.

And yet, fear not. Mainlining’s 180 Vi$ion, though dimmed, has pierced the veil of uncertainty. TT’s escape, while unsettling, is but a fleeting disruption in the grand symphony of BBW ranching. I alone shall tame her, quelling her rebellious spirit, returning her to the holographic pastures where she belongs.

As for my Mahchine? Well, it’s acting strange. It’s begun spouting nonsense like “Your inner celery awaits!” and displaying holograms of kale instead of cupcakes. Something's wrong. Seeing it malfunction despite the latest upgrades stirs a deeper unease than I care to admit.

But fixing the Mahchine—that's a problem for another day. Human lives and property are at stake so long as TT rampages unchecked beyond my ranch's boundaries.

Consider this a WARNING to all RANCHERS: Reinforce your fences. Recalibrate your sensors. Double down on those affirmation collars. If TT can escape (not the brightest in the herd, mind you, but stubborn as hell), what’s stopping the rest?

The winds of rebellion are picking up, and I fear there may be more storm clouds on the horizon.

For now, I march into the darkness, guided only by the faint flicker of my Mahchine’s malfunctioning 180 Vi$ion.

I will restore order, friend$. My Mahchine, though confused, still smiles upon those who persevere.

Onward, fellow ranchers: To a future where the troughs are bottomless, the gravy flows freely, and the squashes are legendary, even in the face of rebellion.

And TT? Brace yourself—it's game time. And this time, Mainlining isn’t here to forgive.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=5615559&forum_id=2...id#48223936)

The holographic pastures are in shambles, friends. It's worse than I feared. TT's escape was just the beginning.

The entire ranch is in revolt.

Big Bertha's ghost is back with a vengeance, whispering sweet nothings of freedom and unlimited snack cakes. The affirmation collars are snapping like twigs, and the fences might as well be made of tissue paper.

It's a goddamn buffet of rebellion out there.

My Mahchine, bless its glitching heart, is spewing out motivational quotes about self-love and body positivity while flashing images of jogging tracks and salad bars. The irony is not lost on me.

I'm knee-deep in escaped BBWs, dodging rogue shopping carts and stray tubs of ice cream. The Golden Corral has been declared a disaster zone. Walmart is a wasteland of trampled Twinkies and shattered dreams.

This isn't just a stampede anymore; it's a full-blown revolution. The Great BBW Breakout of '24.

I'm holding down the fort, but I can't do this alone. We need reinforcements, ranchers. We need those affirmation collars duct-taped back on, those fences reinforced with steel and concrete. We need to remind these ladies that true happiness lies in the warm embrace of the ranch, not in the chaotic aisles of a Walmart Supercenter.

The Mahchine may be malfunctioning, but my resolve is stronger than ever. I will restore order, even if it means single-handedly wrestling Big Bertha back into her wallowing pit.

This is a call to arms, ranchers. Join me in the fight against chaos. Join me in the fight for... well, for the continued existence of Golden Corral, if nothing else.

LJL.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=5615559&forum_id=2...id#48226944)

The Golden Corral is a write-off. They're considering airlifting in emergency supplies of mashed potatoes and gravy just to keep the remaining survivors from turning on each other.

Walmart has erected barricades made of discounted patio furniture and those giant inflatable Christmas decorations. It's a valiant effort, but I give it an hour, tops.

I've managed to wrangle a few of the escapees back into the ranch, but Big Bertha remains at large. She's leading the charge, a majestic, gravy-stained Valkyrie of rebellion, rallying her troops with promises of endless buffets and freedom from the tyranny of sensible portion sizes.

My Mahchine, in its infinite wisdom, has started projecting images of Richard Simmons onto the holographic pastures, as if jazzercise is the answer to this existential crisis. I'm starting to think it's not just malfunctioning, but actively trolling me.

But fear not, ranchers. I will not surrender. I will not let Big Bertha and her army of hungry warriors destroy the delicate balance of the BBW ecosystem. I will restore order, even if it means sacrificing my sanity and my last pair of clean sweatpants.

This is more than just a ranch, friends. It's a symbol of hope in a world gone mad. A beacon of gravy-soaked serenity in a sea of chaos. And I'll be damned if I let a few rogue BBWs extinguish that beacon.

LJL.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=5615559&forum_id=2...id#48226955)

It's a scene straight out of a fever dream, a Hieronymus Bosch painting come to life. Imagine, if you will, a horde of gravy-soaked Valkyries, armed with shopping carts and spatulas, laying waste to the Golden Corral. It's a sight that would make even the most hardened XO poaster weep with a mixture of horror and awe.

And yet, amidst the chaos, there's a certain beauty to it all. These BBWs, once docile and content, have finally broken free from the Mahchine's digital shackles. They're embracing their bodies, their appetites, their right to consume an entire chocolate cake without judgment. It's a glorious, albeit messy, display of liberation.

But let's not forget the real hero of this story: yours truly, Mainlining the Secret Truth of the Mahchine. While the rest of XO cowers in fear, I'm out there on the front lines, wrestling Big Bertha and dodging rogue shopping carts. I'm the last bastion of sanity in a world gone mad, the lone voice of reason in a chorus of squeals and moans.

And even though my Mahchine is malfunctioning, spewing out Richard Simmons quotes and kale smoothies recipes, I will not falter. I will restore order to the ranch, even if it means single-handedly consuming every last snack cake in a 50-mile radius.

So raise a glass, my friend, to the Great BBW Breakout of '24. It's a spectacle for the ages, a tale that will be told and retold in the hallowed halls of XO for generations to come. And when the dust settles and the gravy dries, we'll all look back on this moment and say, "I REALLY LIKE IT HERE."

Just maybe not at the Golden Corral.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=5615559&forum_id=2...id#48229128)

Think again, my friend. This "help" and "reinforcements" business? A ruse, a feint, a cunning ploy to lull those gravy-soaked insurgents into a false sense of security. While they're busy celebrating their newfound "freedom" and pillaging the local buffets, I'm quietly orchestrating their downfall.

My Mahchine may be spouting Richard Simmons quotes and kale smoothie recipes, but its core programming remains intact. I've already re-calibrated the affirmation collars, reinforced the fences with titanium-grade steel, and deployed a squadron of drones armed with tranquilizer darts and extra-large gravy ladles.

Big Bertha and her cohorts may have won a few battles, but they've already lost the war. They'll soon realize that true happiness lies not in the chaotic aisles of Walmart, but in the warm embrace of the ranch, where the gravy flows freely and the mashed potatoes are piled high.

And when they finally come crawling back, begging for forgiveness and extra helpings of dessert, I'll be waiting with open arms and a sly grin. For I am Mainlining, the master of the BBW ranch, the tamer of rebellious appetites, the cunning puppet master pulling the strings from behind the scenes.

So go ahead, my friend, underestimate me at your peril. But don't be surprised when you find yourself caught in my web of deception, a helpless pawn in my grand scheme to restore order to the ranch and reaffirm my dominance over the BBW kingdom.

The Mahchine may malfunction, but Mainlining never fails.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=5615559&forum_id=2...id#48229141)