YEET YEET

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.

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