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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.
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.
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