PASabreFan

You're welcome. The honor has been mine.

This has been reported. I'll await a response. I've had it. Leave me out of your personal problems that come on in the evening. That two people liked it/thought it was funny is also disturbing to me.

Yesterday I heard McDermott say "Jash" over and over. So maybe that's the idea with Auditorium. Not odd-itorium but Add-itorium, with a bit of a nasal sound. I think I've noticed that accent in WNY folk. I'm just wondering why such folk wouldn't also say "add-yssey." P.S. Coach was born in Nebraska. No immediate data on where he grew up or lived that could have affected his accent.

He'd take the Argos job instead.

Define follow.

Awd and odd are different sounds?

I've never heard anyone say Memorial Owwditorium.

Aud and odd aren't pronounced the same?

I'm not sure how audacy and odyssey aren't homophones.

Oww dacy?

Your suggestion?

Doubling down on the comeback prediction?

No. After you do it, your breath smells like lips and *****.

These hockey gods are good, scaaaaaary good! Riddle: how is watching the Sabres like eating a hot dog?

How dare you. It says all-beef right on the package. It's all beef. Uhhh... I blame Granato.

Hebrew National. I'm not taking any chances.

I have the game on mute while reading the SabreSpace Family Squabbles thread that led to GoDD's lifetime ban and regretting eating three hot dogs with sauerkraut (probably been five years since I even had a hot dog, but I made the sauerkraut first and one thing led to another). I wonder where my life went wrong.

h/t @X. Benedict

Fancy stat: Dylan Cozens just spoke the words "excuse me" for the first time in an NHL game since Rip Simonick had the egg farts on November 17, 1997.

I am inspired by old film clips of Jackie clambering onto the back of the limo. She never quit!

Mrs. nfreeman puts the wine glass on the bedside table and snuggles close to her husband, running her hands through chest hair that would raise Tom Selleck's bushy left eyebrow. nfreeman stares at the ceiling playfully, then breaks into a big smile. At that very moment, a red light flashes from across the room, accompanied by an old-timey ah-ooga, ah-ogga. "Sonofabitch," he mutters, immediately throwing off the silk sheet and climbing out of bed. As he hustles toward the phone, he looks down and considers approaching middle-age. Gravity is not his friend. His mood does not improve. After picking the earpiece off the antique phone stand, he cranks the handle and leans into the microphone (it's Brooklyn). "Yes?" The Mrs. curses loudly. "They wrote what?!" A wine glass is picked up abruptly and put back down in a huff, chardonnay instantly staining mahogany. "I'll log in right away, sir."

You don't need to resort to a terrible strawman.

I don't trust anyone who writes the score like a Nana.