Board Thread:General Discussion/@comment-35230176-20180817173617/@comment-27044094-20180818032127

TheDarkSide857 wrote: Yellowpig10 wrote: TheDarkSide857 wrote: Yellowpig10 wrote: Christian Higdon wrote: TheDarkSide857 wrote: Christian Higdon wrote: TheDarkSide857 wrote: Christian Higdon wrote: I AM THE BRINGER OF DEATH! I CANNOT DIE! No, you are just a kid And you are still mortal with no sense of humor. Where's your smirk at? WHAT HAVE YOU DONE!?

Shaliday sucks Pfffffft. Please. You are nothing to me but just another target. I will wipe you the fuck out with precision the likes of which has never been seen before on this Earth, mark my fucking words. I can be anywhere, anytime, and I can make you regret your existence in over seven hundred ways, and that's just with my bare memes. Not only am I extensively trained in unarmed memes, but I have access to the entire arsenal of every weapon in everything ever and I will use it to its fullest extent to wipe your miserable ass off the face of the continent, you little shit. If only you could have known what unholy retribution your little "clever" comment was about to bring down upon you, maybe you would have held your fucking tongue. But you couldn't, you didn't, and now you're paying the price, you goddamn idiot. I will shit fury all over you and you will drown in it. You're fucking dead, kiddo. PART I

I was born into a family of non-yeeters. Every morning before I went to school my father would say, "if I ever find out that you've hit that yeet, I'll thump ya."

"Yes, pa," I would always reply. It was a regular occurrence for him to burst into my room unannounced while I was relaxing or doing homework.

"Y'all hitting that yeet?" he would seeth.

"No, pa," I would answer.

"Good." He would then walk out the room and shout, "If I ever catch ya, it's a thumpin'."

It was a difficult upbringing. I had seen my friends hittin' that yeet at school, and many of them encouraged me to partake.

I would swallow my pride. "No thanks. I don't wanna catch a thumpin' from pa." As a result, I was an outcast. A loner. I became depressed, knowing that I would never be like my peers, I would never fit in - I would never hit that yeet.

One day, when I was still but a wee lad, I became curious. I was in my room, watching Instagram videos of fellas my age hittin' that yeet all over town without a care in the world. My intentions got the better of me. I stood up, my knees trembling. Carefully, I leaned onto my right foot and raised my hand in the air.

I breathed in.

"YEEEEEEEEEEEEEEET!"

My father burst from my closet. "I told you I'd thump ya if I ever caught you hittin' that yeet, nibba," he ejaculated. Then, he thumped me.

I haven't hit that yeet since.

PART II

Until today. This morning was my father's funeral. At the procession, my brother asked me to say a few words. I told him I only needed one.

With confidence, I approached the podium. I gazed out upon the gathering of sad faces. I cleared my throat and leaned into the microphone.

"Yeet," I spake.

Suddenly, my father leapt from his hand-crafted mahogany coffin, the gunshot wound still in his chest. He sprinted up to the podium with the energy of a man without a gunshot wound in his chest.

"Y'all hittin' that dirty fuckin' yeet at my funeral?" he ejaculated. He raised his hand to thump me.

"Not so fast, pa." I grabbed his hand. "Yaint thumpin' no mo'."

My father looked at me with eyes as open as the gunshot wound in his chest. A tear fell from his right eye, which also had a monocle. "The student becomes the teacher," he said.

"The student becomes the yeetcher," I corrected him.