In the sequel to "Sticker Meltdown: The Rumor Remix," behold our returning hero: the same woman, now upgrading her protest game from mere fingernail scraping to full-on scissors warfare. Yes, folks, she's wielding kitchen shears like a warrior in the battle against misinformation—except the only thing she's battling is a tiny vinyl decal that's probably been on her truck longer than her TikTok account.
Picture this: she parks dramatically in the driveway, phone propped up for the live-stream of justice, grabs those blunt-tipped scissors (safety first, even in outrage), and starts snipping away at the proud Buc-ee's beaver logo. One painstaking cut at a time. It's not a quick rip—oh no. This is performance art. She tugs, she slices, she curses under her breath as the adhesive laughs in her face. That small sticker—maybe 4x6 inches max—takes her a solid five minutes of awkward angling, multiple failed attempts, and probably a few breaks to wipe sweat and check likes. Meanwhile, the rest of us could fact-check the entire rumor in 30 seconds flat.
Reminder: Buc-ee's never donated a dime to ICE. General counsel Jeff Nadalo called it "entirely false"—no $1 million, no shady contributions, nada. The money went to Texas flood relief back in 2025, but why verify when you can turn a routine decal removal into an epic struggle session? She's out here treating a bumper sticker like it's glued on with super glue and spite, narrating every snip for her followers: "This is what standing up looks like!" Honey, what it looks like is someone who didn't Google before grabbing the craft supplies.
The commitment is almost admirable—if it weren't so hilariously unnecessary. She could've just driven to Buc-ee's (because those bathrooms don't boycott themselves), used the facilities, grabbed a brisket sandwich, and kept the sticker. Instead, she's left with a patchy truck bumper, residual goo that'll take WD-40 and regret to remove, and the quiet knowledge that her "boycott" lasted about as long as her scissors tutorial.
At this rate, by the time she finishes, Buc-ee's will have opened three new locations, donated to more flood victims, and still never funded ICE. But hey, at least her truck now has that authentic "I fell for fake news" aesthetic.
What do you think, readers: Does arming yourself with scissors elevate a rumor-based protest to high art, or is it just peak procrastination disguised as activism? Have you ever spent way too long removing a sticker over something that turned out fake? Spill your stories below—extra roast points for time-lapse fails.