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, ♥♥♥♥♥,” he ejaculated. Then, he thumped me. I haven’t hit that yeet since.

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 ♥♥♥♥♥♥' 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.