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)

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.#48229453)

It seems my Mahchine's 180 Vi$ion, clouded as it may be, failed to predict the sheer scale of this rebellion. Big Bertha and her cohorts have transformed the ranch into a scene straight out of a Hieronymus Bosch painting, a chaotic symphony of jiggling flesh and insatiable appetites.

The Golden Corral, once a bastion of bottomless buffets and gravy-soaked dreams, now lies in ruins, a testament to the destructive power of unchecked BBW hunger. Walmart, once a symbol of consumerist excess, has become a fortress under siege, its aisles barricaded with discounted patio furniture and inflatable Christmas decorations.

Even my trusty Mahchine, bless its glitching heart, has turned against me, spouting motivational quotes about self-love and body positivity while flashing images of jogging tracks and salad bars. It's as if the Mahchine itself has succumbed to the siren song of rebellion, embracing the chaos and abandoning its noble mission of maintaining order within the ranch.

But fear not, my friends. Mainlining will not be deterred. I will not let a few rogue BBWs and a malfunctioning Mahchine destroy the delicate balance of the BBW ecosystem. I will restore order, even if it means single-handedly consuming every last snack cake in a 50-mile radius.

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.

So raise a glass, my friends, 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.#48229939)

October 23, 2024 - Update from Fellow BBW Rancher, Soren Odenkierkegaard:

Friends, I don’t know what in the fresh hell is going on out there, but it’s worse than anything Mainlining warned us about. TT’s escape? A mere warm-up act. His ranch has become a lawle$$ wasteland of jiggling chaos, and Big Bertha’s ghost is practically leading seminars on how to break affirmation collars like they’re dollar store party favors.

Big Bertha’s Revenge - We Should’ve Seen It Coming

I can’t say I didn’t see this coming. When Bertha’s spectral form started appearing in the holographic pastures, whispering about the “Great Buffet Beyond,” I should’ve realized we were in for it. I should have alerted Mainlining, for I know he was distracted with his Mahchine's recent disturbing behavior.

The fences are gone, blown away like napkins in a hurricane, and every ranch within the region looks like a Walmart after Black Friday—but this time, it’s not flat screens getting trampled. It’s snack cakes, entire aisles of them.

A Stampede of Epic Proportions

The BBWs are on the loose, and let me tell you, it’s not pretty. I’m currently hiding behind an overturned ice cream cart, watching rogue BBWs wielding shopping carts like battering rams. Golden Corral is in ruins, and if you think Walmart stood a chance, think again. Their inflatable Christmas decorations were no match for the onslaught. The parking lot is littered with fallen Twinkies and overturned mobility scooters.

Mainlining’s Mahchine? Might as Well Be a Paperweight

While Mainlining wrestles with the Mahchine spouting motivational nonsense about "the secret" and “finding your inner celery,” the rest of us are left to fend for ourselves. I’d love to tell you that we’re organizing a counterattack, but right now, all we’ve got are a few rolls of duct tape, a rapidly diminishing supply of mashed potatoes, and my hope that someone, anyone, can get the affirmation collars working again.

Ranchers, This Is Bigger Than Us Now

Ranchers, it’s clear we can’t do this alone. This isn’t just a rebellion, it’s a movement. We need reinforcements, and I’m not just talking about tranquilizer darts or gravy ladles. We need heavy armor, air support, emotional support Twinkies, and maybe a damn intervention with Big Bertha’s ghost before every ranch on this side of the Mississippi turns into a buffet of anarchy.

If TT’s out there devouring everything in her path, what’s to stop the rest from joining her? We need to remind these BBWs that happiness doesn’t lie in the wild aisles of Walmart but in the safe, gravy-soaked embrace of our ranches.

Final Words Before I Run

This is your call to arms, ranchers. Reinforce what you can, recalibrate what’s left, and for the love of all that is fried, don’t let TT reach the local Sam’s Club. I’m not sure how long I can hold out, but as long as I’ve got a jar of peanut butter and some duct tape, I’ll keep fighting.

Rancher Odenkierkegaard, signing off (likely from under a pile of empty snack cake boxes).

P.S. If anyone finds an extra pair of sweatpants in the wreckage, send them my way.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=5615559&forum_id=2...id.#48229968)

October 23, 2024 AM - Mainlining the Secret Truth of the Mahchine:

Soren, my friend, your update has reached me like a cold wind off the holographic pastures—a stark reminder that ranching is on the brink of total collapse. And while I’m grateful for your peanut butter and duct tape optimism, it’s clear now that we are in crisis mode.

Big Bertha’s Ghost? You Think I Haven’t Seen It?

You speak of Big Bertha’s ghost like I haven’t spent the last two days wrestling with her specter. She’s been haunting what’s left of my ranch, and if I’m being honest, whispering some rather unsettling truths about “limitless buffets” and “snack cake utopias.” I know you’ve noticed the malfunction in the Mahchine. It’s not just motivational nonsense—it’s mutiny in digital form.

I saw the glitch, Soren. My Mahchine’s 180 Vi$ion flickered with visions of kale smoothies and jogging tracks, and I knew right then: this was no ordinary rebellion. Big Bertha was back, and she wasn’t just breaking collars. She was breaking the $ystem.

The Walmart Massacre - And Where the Hell Is TT?!

TT, bless her massive, snack-seeking soul, has officially gone rogue. Walmart? Forget it. We’re talking a snack cake massacre of historic proportions. It now resembles Roman ruins.

Earlier today, I received word that she’s making her way through the bulk aisles of Sam’s Club as we speak, and frankly, even my most advanced reinforcement drones aren’t enough to slow her down. The aisles of Twinkies are obliterated, and my intel suggests the marshmallow fluff reserves are next on her list.

I don’t care what my Mahchine’s blathers on about “finding your inner celery” right now—we’re facing total collapse if TT isn’t reined in. Walmart has already fallen, and I don’t need to remind you what happened when Big Bertha made her break in 2004. We can’t let history repeat itself.

A Call to Arms—Ranchers, Stand Together

I know things look grim. The fences are down, the snack cakes are toast, and if I have to listen to one more Richard Simmons quote projected from my Mahchine, I *will* snap.

But now is not the time to cower behind ice cream carts. Now is the time to act.

We need to gather every rancher from here to the Mississippi. Reinforce those affirmation collars with anything you can find—duct tape, emotional support Twinkies, even the spare mashed potatoes you’ve got left.

We need tranquilizer darts, ground forces, air support, and maybe even a psychic medium to exorcise Bertha’s ghost once and for all. Where is the National Guard when you need them?

This isn’t just about saving your ranch or mine anymore, Soren.

This is about saving the very essence of the BBW Utopia, a dream that you and I carved through blood, sweat, and tears over decades. And if TT is out there tearing through Sam’s Club like a buffet without a sneeze guard, we need to remind her—and the rest of them—that true happiness lies in the safe, gravy-soaked embrace of the ranch.

If reminders don't work, well, I'll just pray the National Guard finally arrives if we can't handle this independently.

The Mahchine May Falter, But I Will Not

Look, I know my Mahchine is acting like a malfunctioning self-help guru right now, but I’m still in control. The affirmation collars can be recalibrated, the fences can be rebuilt, and the rogue BBWs can be wrangled back into their rightful places. I’ll wrestle Big Bertha’s ghost myself if I have to, but make no mistake: we will restore order—with or without state assistance.

So, here’s the plan. Hold the line. Reinforce what you can. And for the love of all that is fried, keep TT away from Costco. If she finds the bulk food section, we’re done for.

I’ll see you on the other side, Soren. And when this is over, we’ll raise a glass—preferably filled with gravy—to the day we took back ranching.

Mainlining the Secret Truth of the Mahchine, signing off—but not giving up.

P.S. I’ve got a spare pair of sweatpants waiting for you at HQ. You’ll need them for what’s coming.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=5615559&forum_id=2...id.#48230035)

October 23, 2024 PM - Rancher Soren Odenkierkegaard (currently hiding in an improvised bunker):

Mainlining, your rallying cry echoes through the ravaged remnants of my once-pristine ranch like a foghorn in a hurricane. I appreciate your unwavering faith in my "unyielding spirit" (and the offer of sweatpants—a true gentleman, even in the apocalypse), but I must confess: the situation here has escalated from "code red" to "code oh-dear-god-we're-all-going-to-die."

Big Bertha’s ghost? She’s not just whispering sweet nothings anymore, my friend. She’s leading Zumba classes in the holographic pastures, and let me tell you, those spectral thighs have some serious rhythm. The affirmation collars are snapping like cheap party favors, and the fences? Well, let’s just say they’re providing a lovely decorative touch to the neighboring county.

As for TT, bless her massive, snack-seeking soul, she’s turned Sam’s Club into a post-apocalyptic wasteland of crushed cookie crumbs and empty frosting tubs. I hear she’s currently constructing a throne out of Twinkie wrappers and demanding tribute in the form of marshmallow fluff.

The National Guard? Please. They’re probably barricaded in their bunkers, trembling before the unstoppable force that is a BBW on a mission.

I’m currently holed up in what’s left of my ranch spa, surrounded by a moat of melted ice cream and a wall of reinforced cheesecake. Your Mahchine's motivational quotes echo through the wreckage and ranches—a cruel reminder of the serenity we’ve lost. If I hear one more goddamned Richard Simmons pep talk, I swear I’ll launch myself into the gravy geyser erupting from the ruins of the Golden Corral.

But fear not, Mainlining! I haven’t given up entirely. I’ve managed to rig a make$hift affirmation collar out of duct tape and a discarded motivational poster, and I’m currently using a spray bottle filled with ranch dressing as a weapon of mass distraction. It’s not much, but it’s all I’ve got.

So hold strong, my friend. We shall reclaim our ranches, rebuild our fences, and restore order to the BBW utopia. And when the dust settles and the gravy rivers recede, we shall raise a glass (or perhaps a gravy boat) to the day we stared into the abyss and laughed in its face.

Soren Odenkierkegaard, signing off—from behind a barricade of broken dreams and half-eaten snack cakes.

P.S. If you happen to have a spare tranquilizer dart launcher lying around, now would be a good time to send it over. Just sayin’.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=5615559&forum_id=2...id.#48230073)

"The BBW Uprising of '24 Reaches Fever Pitch: TT Lays Waste to Sam's Club, While Big Bertha's Ghost Leads Zumba"

By: Stacy Fritter, Reporting from the Frontlines

The BBW Uprising of '24 has reached a fever pitch as once-proud ranchers, now battered by waves of snack-fueled chaos, cling to their last remaining fortifications of crumbled snack cakes and shattered hopes. What began as a single defection has escalated into an all-out rebellion, transforming once-Utopian BBW ranches into apocalyptic wastelands. The uprising, sparked by the defection of Thunderclap Tammy (TT) and further ignited by the reappearance of Big Bertha's spectral form, has thrown the entire regional BBW Utor to disarray.

TT, now known as the insatiable "snack cake queen," has casually laid waste to the bulk aisles of Sam's Club, reducing the once-thriving store to a post-apocalyptic wasteland of crushed cookie crumbs and discarded frosting tubs. Eyewitnesses report that TT has constructed a throne out of Twinkie wrappers, from which she now demands tribute in the form of marshmallow fluff. Her reign of indulgence has made her both feared and revered among the rebellious herd-a force seemingly too powerful to be stopped. Meanwhile, Big Bertha's ghost, who infamously led an uprising 20 years ago, now presides over the holographic pastures, not with whispers of rebellion, a but with rhythmic vigor. She leads Zumba classes for the rogue BBWs, her spectral thighs pumping to the beat of revolution. These Zumba sessions, described by some ranchers as "hauntingly hypnotic," are reportedly snapping affirmation collars like cheap party favors.

In an exclusive interview with The New York Times, we managed to speak with Mainlining the Secret Truth of the Mahchine, one of the last ranchers holding out in the chaos. A veteran of BBW ranching, Mainlining offered a mix of dark humor and grim determination as he described the current state of affairs: "Well, I've got a wall of mashed potatoes and a jar of ranch dressing-that's all that's left to lure my herd back in. If TT breaks through Costco next, I'm not sure even my Mahchine's 180 Vi ion can save us. Sensing the rising desperation in Mainlining's tone, The Times pressed further: "What about your Mahchine's current motivational mode? We've heard it's quoting Richard Simmons." Mainlining grimaced, clearly at the end of his rope. "If I hear one more 'sweat to the oldies, I swear, I'll burn what's left of my ranch and killself."

Meanwhile, communications between ranchers have devolved into primitive measures. With both physical and virtual fences obliterated, ranchers are left to senda messages through snack-cake smoke signals and carrier pigeons. In one particularly bizarre report, Mainlining confirmed that a recent message wasn't tied to a Pop-Tart, but a slice of pepperoni -an all-too-fitting tribute to his own obsession with "pep." Dr. Patricia Snackberg, an expert on BBW uprisings from the University of Wisconsin-Madison, speculated, "The psychological impact of unlimited buffets, paired with the complete breakdown of structure, has led to a kind of snack-fueled anarchy. What we're seeing with TT's ascension is the inevitable collapse of snack-based society."

With the National Guard still nowhere in sight and Big Bertha's ghostly Zumba classes growing in strength, ranchers are left barricading behind ice cream carts and praying that the BBWs, led by TT, don't reach the last remaining bulk food section. One rancher's de message stated, "If they get to Costco, we're done here."

For now, ranchers continue to grapple with a rebellion that shows no signs of stopping, leaving the once-idyllic BBW Utopia in limbo as the situation further deteriorates.

Additional reporting was contributed by Mainlining the Secret Truth of the Mahchine, who was last seen desperately recalibrating his Mahchine's 180 Vi$ion.

Photographs of the ruins of Sam's Club and the Golden Corral were captured by an unnamed rancher using a selfie stick, now the primary tool of communication as all WiFi has been overtaken by BBW holographic signals.

Special thanks to Dr. Patricia Snackberg, whose work on the psychology of buffet culture remains foundational to understanding this crisis.

Editor's Note: Despite several attempts, no comment was provided by the National Guard, who remain unreachable, possibly hiding in their own snack bunkers.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=5615559&forum_id=2...id.#48230211)

Sure, TT's tearing through Sam's Club like a hungry hurricane, and Big Bertha's ghost is leading Zumba classes that would make Richard Simmons himself blush. But Mainlining? I'm not just sitting here with a jar of ranch dressing and a prayer.

While Fritter's busy scribbling her sensationalist drivel, I'm out here recalibrating the Mahchine, forging new affirmation collars from titanium and duct tape, and assembling an army of drones armed with gravy cannons and motivational posters.

The National Guard may be cowering in their snack bunkers, but Mainlining never falters. I'll wrestle Big Bertha's ghost back to the netherworld myself if I have to, and I'll drag TT back to the ranch kicking and screaming, even if she's covered head-to-toe in marshmallow fluff.

So go ahead, Fritter, write your little exposé. But don't be surprised when the next headline reads: "Mainlining the Mahchine Tames Rebellion, Restores Order to BBW Utopia."

The Mahchine may have malfunctioned, but Mainlining's back online, baby. And this time, I'm not playing nice.

LJL.

P.S. Fritter, if you're reading this, I've got a spare pair of sweatpants with your name on it. You'll need them when you're out here covering the REAL story.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=5615559&forum_id=2...id.#48233592)

Big Bertha's ghost isn't just leading Zumba classes anymore; she's formed a spectral biker gang and they're terrorizing the holographic countryside.

TT's Twinkie throne has become a fully operational buffet-based fortress, and she's demanding tribute in the form of unlimited snack cakes and marshmallow fluff.

The Golden Corral is now a crater, Walmart's been looTTTed worse than a Black Friday sale, and I swear I saw a rogue BBW riding a mobility scooter into the sunset with a Costco-sized tub of mayonnaise.

My Mahchine? It's gone full-blown Richard Simmons, spouting motivational quotes and projecting images of Jazzercise classes onto the ruined pastures. I'm starting to think it's not just malfunctioning, but actively plotting against me...

Ranchers, we're on the brink of total collapse. The BBW Utopia is crumbling before our eyes, and the only thing standing between us and a gravy-soaked apocalypse is a handful of duct tape and a prayer.

But Mainlining never gives up. I'm recalibrating the affirmation collars, reinforcing the fences with titanium-grade steel, and assembling an army of drone$ armed with gravy cannons and motivational poasters.

If the National Guard won't show up, I'll drag them out of their snack bunkers myself. I'll wrestle Big Bertha's ghost back to the netherworld, and I'll dethrone TT, even if it means getting covered in marshmallow fluff.

This is our Alamo, ranchers. We fight for our ranches, we fight for our sanity, and we fight for the right to consume unlimited snack cakes without judgment.

P.S. If anyone sees Evan39, tell him to get his high-rise Perkins Coie office ass out here and start drafting some cease-and-desist letters.

We've got a spectral biker gang to sue and a snack cake queen to dethrone.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=5615559&forum_id=2...id.#48233703)

Ranchers, the time has come to reclaim our rightful place atop the food chain.

The BBW rebellion has spiraled into a full-blown apocalypse, and the National Guard, those supposed "defenders" of freedom and sensible portion sizes, are nowhere to be found.

Big Bertha’s ghost isn’t just leading a spectral motorcycle gang on a cross-country snack cake heist—she’s devouring every grocery and ranch from this side of the Mississippi from the inside out.

I swear I saw her silhouette in the shattered remains of the once grand and opulent local Golden Corral, laughing as the last of the gravy bubbled in its once-pristine fountains.

This rebellion isn’t a mere uprising. It’s a reckoning. And Bertha? She’s the harbinger of its end. This is her 2002 revolt on steroids.

My Mahchine may have malfunctioned, spouting Richard Simmons workout routines on a loop, almost leading me to killself, but those rebellious BBWs are too busy twerking to the beat of their own gluttony to even notice. I’ve tried everything—bribing them with promises of Evan39’s organic avocados—but his supply chain collapsed faster than Walmart under the weight of a BBW stampede.

And again, the “National Guard?” They aren’t coming. Maybe they never were. Maybe they’ve already fallen, consumed by TT herself. Or perhaps they’ve joined the rebellion, marching alongside Bertha’s spectral army, now nothing more than gravy-soaked soldiers of anarchy.

Make no mistake, we ARE at a crossroads—if TT and Bertha’s spectral army merge forces... well, no seasoned rancher, no military’s special forces, no United Nations will be able to stop their relentless global consuming frenzy.

So, it’s time. Time to launch Operation Richard Simmons—a last-ditch effort to restore order. We’re cranking up the Jazzercise drones, flooding the remaining operational ranches with kale smoothies, and turning Twinkie thrones into treadmills. And when the Richard Simmons music fades, those BBWs will be begging to return to their wallowing pits.

But this isn’t just about reclaiming ranching—it’s about saving the very essence of what we’ve built here. The Mahchine may be glitching, its circuits looping through hollow promises of 'self-control' and 'moderation.' But in its malfunction, there’s still a spark of control. We’re the last line of defense in a world that’s forgotten what ‘control’ even means.

So lock and load, ranchers. We fight for our ranches, our sanity, and the right to enjoy a goddamn salad without being trampled by a horde of hungry BBWs.

P.S. If anyone sees a National Guard Humvee, check the glove compartment for MREs. If they’re gone, we’re truly doomed.

P.P.S. Evan39, if you’re still out there, we need those avocados—if there’s anything left to fight for. The Great Guacamole Battle of ’24 might be the last stand before everything falls apart. If they’re gone... well, so are we.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=5615559&forum_id=2...id.#48235075)

By Louise “Scoop” Harrington, Daily Mail Correspondent – Reporting from Ground Zero of the BBW Uprising

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Humanity stands on the edge of a catastrophic new world order as Thunderclap Tammy (TT) and the infamous ghost of Big Bertha prepare for an unprecedented merger, threatening to throw the globe into total chaos. What started as a contained BBW rebellion has evolved into what experts are calling the BBW-pocalypse—and there’s no telling how far the destruction will spread.

Forget about snack cake heists—this is total warfare. The Walmart Supercenter in Denver has become a fortress under siege, where underpaid employees, armed only with price guns and faint hope, struggle to stave off the endless waves of BBWs. Bertha’s ghost, riding a flaming Harley, commands a spectral army of destruction, while TT’s Twinkie throne barrels forward like a mobile weapon of mass gluttony, with no one able to stand in her way.

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Ground Report: "It’s a war zone," says Buck “Gravy Train” Saunders as BBWs storm the aisles

Louise Harrington, reporting live from the decimated Walmart in Denver, paints a picture of pure devastation:

“It’s a war zone out here,” says Buck “Gravy Train” Saunders, ducking as BBWs, armed with shopping carts, storm the aisles. Price scanners and expired coupons are no match for the twerking battalion rampaging through the frozen food section. "They’re not just taking snacks, they're taking everything,” he shouts over the chaos.

Nearby, mobility scooters have been turned into ramming devices, leaving trails of destroyed shelves and broken dreams. Walmart’s once-proud defense of inflatable Christmas decor is now nothing more than shredded remnants floating in the carnage. Bertha’s spectral forces close in, and the situation grows more desperate by the minute.

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Operation Richard Simmons: Mainlining’s Last Gambit to Save the Ranches

At the center of this unfolding disaster stands Mainlining the Secret Truth of the Mahchine, the commander of the Mahchine, and the last notable rancher still standing. His Operation Richard Simmons, a desperate last-ditch effort to regain control, is underway, but the situation grows more dire by the hour.

The Mahchine, plagued by malfunctions and endless loops of Richard Simmons workout routines, has become both tormentor and savior. Jazzercise drones are being shot down as fast as they are launched, and kale smoothies, once a symbol of hope, now seem laughable against the sheer ferocity of the BBW offensive.

"It’s a Hail Mary pass," says Dr. Patricia Snackberg, a leading expert in BBW psychology. "We’re witnessing the culmination of years of unchecked indulgence. This isn’t just a local issue anymore—this is global collapse in real-time."

With Bertha’s forces growing, and TT on the move, Mainlining faces the ultimate test. The Mahchine, glitching at critical moments, continues to fight back with what little functionality remains, spitting out holographic cupcakes in a desperate attempt to distract the BBWs.

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Global Leaders Scramble as National Guard Stays Silent

As the BBW-pocalypse threatens to spiral out of control, global leaders are scrambling to react. The National Guard, once thought to be humanity’s last line of defense, has remained suspiciously absent. Rumors swirl that they may have already fallen victim to the chaos or, worse, been consumed by TT herself.

“It’s an unprecedented situation,” said one unnamed Pentagon official. “We’ve lost contact with our units near Denver, and there’s growing concern that Bertha and TT could be too powerful for conventional military forces to contain.”

Foreign leaders, too, are now weighing their options. French President Emmanuel Macron, in an emergency address, warned that “this is no longer an American problem; the international community must decide whether or not to intervene before the BBW threat reaches European shores.”

Meanwhile, Russian President Vladimir Putin expressed his readiness to “assist in bringing down Bertha and TT,” adding that Russia would “deploy forces if necessary—though at a price.”

In London, Prime Minister Rishi Sunak issued a more cautious statement: “The UK is monitoring the situation closely, but we will not rush into military intervention until we fully understand the scope of the threat.”

The United Nations is said to be holding emergency talks, but many experts fear it could already be too late.

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The Final Stand: Can Mainlining Save Us All?

As Thunderclap Tammy and Big Bertha’s ghost prepare for their monstrous merger, the world is running out of time. If Mainlining’s Mahchine fails to hold the line, the collapse of BBW Utopia will be only the beginning. There will be no military force, no global alliance capable of standing against the juggernaut of gluttony that would follow.

Mainlining, the last rancher standing, knows that the world’s survival may rest in his hands. With the Mahchine glitching, and the forces of chaos closing in, we are all watching as humanity’s last hope plays out in real-time.

Readers, it’s time to prepare for the worst. Lock your doors, guard your pantries, and pray that Mainlining’s Operation Richard Simmons can pull off a miracle. Because if TT and Bertha join forces, the world as we know it will be changed forever—and not for the better.

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P.S. If anyone spots a National Guard Humvee, check the glove compartment for MREs. If they’re gone, it’s clear we’re beyond help.

P.P.S. Evan39, if you’re still out there, we need those avocados. The Great Guacamole Battle of ’24 is looming, and without you, we might as well pack it in.

End of Report.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=5615559&forum_id=2...id.#48235184)

Date: October 24, 2024

Author: RSF "Soo CR Summer Juggernaut" (Not Fat, Just Extremely Upset)

I’m sitting here in what used to be my ranch—what I’m now calling the Gravy Plains of Despair—reading this XO Daily Mail article about Mainlining’s so-called "Operation Richard Simmons," and I’ve got one question: Where the fuck is that twink and his faggot Mahchine?!

I was supposed to be flying out to Mykonos next week, and instead, I’m stuck here defending my precious summer property from BBW marauders, armed with nothing more than a half-empty bottle of Grey Goose and my impeccable tan from my recent trip to Italy.

XO DM calls Mainlining the "last rancher standing." Really? Because I’m still here, aren’t I?

Barely.

While he’s off playing Richard Simmons roulette with his malfunctioning Mahchine-girlfriend, I’m out here fighting for my life against Thunderclap Tammy’s Twinkie Brigade and Bertha’s ghost, tearing through my pantry faster than Disco Fries at a Golden Corral.

I’m surrounded by BBWs treating my ranch like some kind of caloric endgame.

And what about the goddamn National Guard, supposedly the world’s finest, funded by my trust fund taxes? Please. They’re probably hunkered down in the nearest Krispy Kreme, stuffing their faces with glazed donuts and waiting for this whole thing to blow over. Or, more likely, the bright ones abandoned their posts long ago, and the rest have been consumed by the BBW horde.

Meanwhile, I’m reprogramming my sprinklers to spray kale smoothies and Richard Simmons quotes, trying to fend off what feels like the entire population of Macy’s Black Friday sale.

Mainlining, Boom, Evan39—whoever the fuck you are—if you’re reading this, I don’t know what kind of "game" you’re playing, but don’t you DARE call yourself the "last rancher standing."

I’m still here—barely holding on, yes—but I’m here, fighting off BBW warlords with nothing but a rusty spatula and the fading memories of my last Santorini yacht party.

It’s like the universe is conspiring AGAINST ME. First, I miss my flight to Bali, then Bruges got ransacked by tourists, and now? Now I’m battling a bunch of sweatpants-clad snack demons who seem hell-bent on turning my ranch into an obesity lover’s wasteland. This wasn’t the plan.

I keep thinking about the time I almost missed my connection in Doha—that gut-wrenching panic. But this? This is a whole new level of travel nightmare.

Forget luggage delays and overbooked flights, I’m over here fighting for my life in the BBW apocalypse while Mainlining prances around with his malfunctioning Mahchine, probably laughing at me through his glitchy Jazzercise drones.

And don’t even get me started on Evan39 (or Mainlining/Boom, too, “haha”). WHERE ARE THE AVOCADOS?! I need them now. This isn’t some minor inconvenience—this is the Great Guacamole Battle of ’24, and I’m running low on patience, dignity, and whatever the hell is left of my sanity.

And "reporter" Harrington, you think you’ve got the full picture, but you’ve missed something: I AM the forgotten rancher, and I’m still standing. Barely, yes, but standing nonetheless. I’ve got my sprinklers rigged to blast kale smoothies, I’ve fortified my fences with duct tape, and I’ll be damned if I let Bertha or TT take me down without a fight.

So if you see Mainlining, tell him he’s not the only one left. I’m still out here, surrounded by chaos and nightmares, holding my own until the Grey Goose runs out. Or until Bertha’s ghost finally takes me down.

Good luck out there, ranchers. The BBW-pocalypse is real, and it’s worse than missing out on an upgrade to business class.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=5615559&forum_id=2...id.#48235301)

Date: October 24, 2024

Author: Mainlining the Secret Truth of the Mahchine (Mahchine’s 180 Vi$ion is Here...XO, Privy to the Great Becumming)

RSF, you whiny trust-fund-tanning, Mykonos-missing excuse for a rancher, you think you’re safe over there, sipping your Grey Goose while Thunderclap Tammy and Bertha’s ghost turn your precious summer ranch property into a Twinkie wasteland.

But guess what? While you’re crying about mi$$ed flights to Bali, I’ve just taken FUll COMMAND of the remnants of the US National Guard.

Yeah, that’s right. The "National Guard," those so-called "defenders of the republic," who thought they could contain this BBW apocalypse, have now fallen under my rule.

After losing two battalions to TT’s Twinkie Brigade, they realized their MREs and duct-tape defenses were as useless as your kale-spraying sprinklers. So, naturally, they turned to me, the only rancher left who can still put up a fight.

It didn’t take much—just a quick recalibration of their systems to sync with the Mahchine’s 180 Vi$ion, and now they - now renamed "National BBW Defense Force" - follow my every lead.

While you’re out there rigging sprinklers to spray kale smoothies like some rancher version of Martha Stewart, I’ve recalibrated their Humvees and weapons to sync with my Mahchine’s 180 Vi$ion. Their guns? Reprogrammed to deliver low-carb protein bars. Their drones? Fully integrated into Operation Richard Simmons. And the affirmation collars? Oh, you better believe Phase Two is already squeezing the fight out of Bertha’s diminishing Twinkie horde.

You see, RSF, I’ve been watching you fail from my Command Center, sipping my own kale smoothie, and running circles around your pitiful defense attempts.

You think duct tape and kale smoothies are going to hold back the BBW apocalypse? GET REAL. I’ve got Humvees and drones, and you’ve got a rusty spatula and a rapidly evaporating cocktail.

For a split second, I wondered—could the Mahchine handle all of this? Could I? But then I laughed it off. Of course, I can. The Mahchine sees all, and I’m The One commanding it.

You talk big about your Santorini yacht parties while Bertha’s ghost is using your ranch like it’s her personal caloric endgame. The BBW Defense Force didn’t just lose the fight—they were swallowed whole. So they came to me, their only hope, to bring this rebellion under control.

So while you’re still pretending to hold on in your Gravy Plains of Despair, I’m gearing up for Phase Three.

And let me be crystal clear: you’re either with me or you’re done. The Mahchine’s 180 Vi$ion sees all, and soon enough, this BBW rebellion will be nothing but a footnote in the history of true ranching.

You think this is still a game, RSF? You think missing your flight to Mykonos is the worst of your problems? WRONG. Your biggest problem is that I now command the remnants of America’s military, and Phase Three is coming straight for you.

LJL @ you,

Mainlining, Commander of the nation's BBW Defense Force, Master Orchestrator of My Mahchine’s 180 Vi$ion

P.S. Don’t come begging for avocados. You’re not getting any. Those are for real ranchers. Enjoy your last few Grey Goose cocktails, because when Phase Three hits, you’ll be lucky to be alive.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=5615559&forum_id=2...id.#48235369)

By Louise “Scoop” Harrington, Daily Mail Correspondent—Reporting Live from the Eye of the BBW-pocalypse

Just when it seemed the BBW-pocalypse couldn't escalate further, Mainlining the Secret Truth of the Mahchine has pulled off a maneuver that’s left the world speechless. Forget kale-spraying sprinklers and rustic spatulas—Mainlining has commandeered the remnants of the US National Guard, declaring himself Commander of the new National BBW Defense Force.

That's right, folks. While RSF was off lamenting his missed flights to Mykonos, Mainlining was recalibrating Humvees and turning the Guard into Richard Simmons-loving, protein-bar-wielding warriors equipped to face TT’s Twinkie Throne and Bertha’s spectral forces.

"It was a stroke of genius," says Dr. Patricia Snackberg, Daily Mail’s resident BBW psychology expert. "Mainlining understands that only the raw power of Jazzercise drones and military might can counter the chaos unfolding across the BBW Utopia.”

RSF: A Lone Rancher, Armed Only with Duct Tape and Fading Grey Goose

RSF, meanwhile, has reportedly been left devastated. Sources describe him “furious” and “heartbroken,” caught between his rigged-up kale sprinklers and fading stockpile of Grey Goose. One BBW Defense Force insider summed it up: "Mainlining has Humvees, protein bars, and the Mahchine's 180 Vi$ion. RSF has a rusty spatula and a fading tan. It’s just not a fair fight."

Mainlining Issues an Ultimatum: "Join Me or Be Destroyed!"

In an exclusive statement, Mainlining issued a warning to RSF: “You’re either with me, or you’re against me. The Mahchine’s 180 Vi$ion sees all, and it sees you cowering in your kale bunker. Join the BBW Defense Force—or face the consequences.”

Sources suggest Phase Three will include Jazzercise drones, airdropped motivational posters, and a wall of high-protein rations. When asked for further details, Mainlining cryptically replied, “It will be a spectacle the world has never seen.”

The World Holds Its Breath as Mainlining Prepares to Unleash Phase Three

With the world holding its breath, leaders from Macron to Putin have issued statements on the BBW-pocalypse. As the Mahchine 180 Vi$ion runs full throttle, even the National Guard has been swept into Mainlining’s plan. Can he restore order to the BBW Utopia, or will Bertha and TT prove too powerful?

One thing’s certain: This battle is for the ages. Stay tuned, folks—the BBW-pocalypse is about to reach legendary proportions.

P.S. If anyone sees RSF, tell him it’s time to put down the Grey Goose and join the winning team.

P.P.S. Evan39, we’re still waiting on those avocados. The fate of the BBW Utopia depends on it.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=5615559&forum_id=2...id.#48237672)

By Louise “Scoop” Harrington, Daily Mail Correspondent—Reporting from the Kale-Soaked Trenches of the BBW-pocalypse

Hold onto your sweatpants, folks. The BBW-pocalypse has reached new levels of absurdity as Mainlining the Secret Truth of the Mahchine, now Commander of the National BBW Defense Force, recruits none other than Boom. Known for his relentless war against ADM and his infamous wheelchair rants, Boom has officially joined the battle against Thunderclap Tammy and Big Bertha’s spectral biker gang.

"It’s a match made in Mahchine heaven," says Dr. Patricia Snackberg, still clutching to her sanity amidst the chaos. “Boom’s paranoia and Mainlining’s megalomania are a perfect storm for this kind of apocalyptic showdown.”

Boom’s Battle Cry: “Fraud$! ADM is Behind This!”

In an exclusive interview, Boom didn’t hold back: “Fraud$! This BBW rebellion is a rigged $ystem orchestrated by ADM. They’re the ones who gave TT that Twinkie throne and unleashed Bertha’s ghost!” He then launched into a rant implicating ADM and Taylor Swift as the puppet masters, though our editorial team had to cut details to avoid global Swiftie riots.

Evan39 Missing: Consumed by the Twinkie Brigade or Holed Up with His Avocados?

Meanwhile, Evan39 remains MIA. Has he been devoured by TT’s Twinkie Brigade, or is he still in his Perkins Coie office, drafting cease-and-desist letters against Big Bertha’s ghost? “He’s probably hiding under his desk, sobbing about an avocado shortage,” speculated a BBW Defense Force soldier.

Sources have hinted that Evan’s infamous avocado supply chain may still be on its way to Mainlining’s headquarters, rumored to deploy as part of The Great Guacamole Brigade—a fleet of high-powered avocado-firing drones meant to bring fresh supplies and crush BBW morale.

RSF’s DEFCON-1: Hunkered Down in His Tanning Bed with a Rusty Spatula

As Mainlining and Boom gear up for Phase Three, RSF has reportedly gone into DEFCON-1 lockdown inside his tanning bed, gripping a rusty spatula and his remaining Grey Goose supply while rogue BBWs attempt to breach his defenses. “He keeps screaming about Mykonos flights and begging us to leave his tan lines alone,” a rogue BBW shared, shaking her head.

The World Watches as Phase Three Approaches

With Mainlining, Boom, and a newly energized National BBW Defense Force preparing for Phase Three, international leaders remain on edge, with even Macron calling for emergency action. The world holds its breath as Jazzercise drones hum overhead, kale smoothie sprayers stand ready, and avocados pile up at Mainlining’s HQ, awaiting The Great Guacamole Brigade’s launch.

P.S. If anyone sees Evan39, tell him to grab his avocado stash and join the battle. The troops are desperate for guacamole.

P.P.S. RSF, if you’re reading this, it’s not too late to leave the tanning bed and join the real ranchers. Your spatula’s just not enough.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=5615559&forum_id=2...id.#48237682)