Kick me if you are jealous that I am better than you at EM. You can make a fake excuse up if you want to.
deletedover 8 years
you cn’t see it. but im flipping you off. i am flipping you off with both my hands. im typing this with my middle finger. i am flipping you off right now. flipping you off so hard right now. you can’t see it, which is a true pity, but take my word for it. i am. i am flipping you off right now. because you can’t see it, let me describe it for you. my pinkie and ring fingers are folded down on both hands, a little past the second crease in my hands. my middle fingers are extended. they’re pointing to the sky. then my thumbs are crossed over my index fingers, also folded down on my hands, but to the freckle on my left hand. my thumb nail on my left hand has a black triangle on it. now, i’m waving my both my hands vigorously, still flipping you off.
i farted and it smells like a zombie after you killed it for the 2nd time with a belly full of skunk spray
ᶠᵃᶰᵗᵃˢ ᶦ ʷᵃᶰᵗ ᵗᵒ ᵐᵃᵏᵉ ʸᵒᵘ ˢʷᵉᵃᵗᶠᵃᶰᵗᵃˢ ᶦ ʷᵃᶰᵗ ᵗᵒ ᵐᵃᵏᵉ ʸᵒᵘ ˢʷᵉᵃᵗᶠᵃᶰᵗᵃˢ ᶦ ʷᵃᶰᵗ ᵗᵒ ᵐᵃᵏᵉ ʸᵒᵘ ˢʷᵉᵃᵗᶠᵃᶰᵗᵃˢ ᶦ ʷᵃᶰᵗ ᵗᵒ ᵐᵃᵏᵉ ʸᵒᵘ ˢʷᵉᵃᵗᶠᵃᶰᵗᵃˢ ᶦ ʷᵃᶰᵗ ᵗᵒ ᵐᵃᵏᵉ ʸᵒᵘ ˢʷᵉᵃᵗᶠᵃᶰᵗᵃˢ ᶦ ʷᵃᶰᵗ ᵗᵒ ᵐᵃᵏᵉ ʸᵒᵘ ˢʷᵉᵃᵗᶠᵃᶰᵗᵃˢ ᶦ ʷᵃᶰᵗ ᵗᵒ ᵐᵃᵏᵉ ʸᵒᵘ ˢʷᵉᵃᵗᶠᵃᶰᵗᵃˢ ᶦ ʷᵃᶰᵗ ᵗᵒ ᵐᵃᵏᵉ ʸᵒᵘ ˢʷᵉᵃᵗᶠᵃᶰᵗᵃˢ ᶦ ʷᵃᶰᵗ ᵗᵒ ᵐᵃᵏᵉ ʸᵒᵘ ˢʷᵉᵃᵗᶠᵃᶰᵗᵃˢ ᶦ ʷᵃᶰᵗ ᵗᵒ ᵐᵃᵏᵉ ʸᵒᵘ ˢʷᵉᵃᵗᶠᵃᶰᵗᵃˢ ᶦ ʷᵃᶰᵗ ᵗᵒ ᵐᵃᵏᵉ ʸᵒᵘ ˢʷᵉᵃᵗᶠᵃᶰᵗᵃˢ ᶦ ʷᵃᶰᵗ ᵗᵒ ᵐᵃᵏᵉ ʸᵒᵘ ˢʷᵉᵃᵗᶠᵃᶰᵗᵃˢ ᶦ ʷᵃᶰᵗ ᵗᵒ ᵐᵃᵏᵉ ʸᵒᵘ ˢʷᵉᵃᵗᶠᵃᶰᵗᵃˢ ᶦ ʷᵃᶰᵗ ᵗᵒ ᵐᵃᵏᵉ ʸᵒᵘ ˢʷᵉᵃᵗᶠᵃᶰᵗᵃˢ ᶦ ʷᵃᶰᵗ ᵗᵒ ᵐᵃᵏᵉ ʸᵒᵘ ˢʷᵉᵃᵗᶠᵃᶰᵗᵃˢ ᶦ ʷᵃᶰᵗ ᵗᵒ ᵐᵃᵏᵉ ʸᵒᵘ ˢʷᵉᵃᵗᶠᵃᶰᵗᵃˢ ᶦ ʷᵃᶰᵗ ᵗᵒ ᵐᵃᵏᵉ ʸᵒᵘ ˢʷᵉᵃᵗᶠᵃᶰᵗᵃˢ ᶦ ʷᵃᶰᵗ ᵗᵒ ᵐᵃᵏᵉ ʸᵒᵘ ˢʷᵉᵃᵗᶠᵃᶰᵗᵃˢ ᶦ ʷᵃᶰᵗ ᵗᵒ ᵐᵃᵏᵉ ʸᵒᵘ ˢʷᵉᵃᵗᶠᵃᶰᵗᵃˢ ᶦ ʷᵃᶰᵗ ᵗᵒ ᵐᵃᵏᵉ ʸᵒᵘ ˢʷᵉᵃᵗᶠᵃᶰᵗᵃˢ ᶦ ʷᵃᶰᵗ ᵗᵒ ᵐᵃᵏᵉ ʸᵒᵘ ˢʷᵉᵃᵗᶠᵃᶰᵗᵃˢ ᶦ ʷᵃᶰᵗ ᵗᵒ ᵐᵃᵏᵉ ʸᵒᵘ ˢʷᵉᵃᵗᶠᵃᶰᵗᵃˢ ᶦ ʷᵃᶰᵗ ᵗᵒ ᵐᵃᵏᵉ ʸᵒᵘ ˢʷᵉᵃᵗᶠᵃᶰᵗᵃˢ ᶦ ʷᵃᶰᵗ ᵗᵒ ᵐᵃᵏᵉ ʸᵒᵘ ˢʷᵉᵃᵗᶠᵃᶰᵗᵃˢ ᶦ ʷᵃᶰᵗ ᵗᵒ ᵐᵃᵏᵉ ʸᵒᵘ ˢʷᵉᵃᵗᶠᵃᶰᵗᵃˢ ᶦ ʷᵃᶰᵗ ᵗᵒ ᵐᵃᵏᵉ ʸᵒᵘ ˢʷᵉᵃᵗᶠᵃᶰᵗᵃˢ ᶦ ʷᵃᶰᵗ ᵗᵒ ᵐᵃᵏᵉ ʸᵒᵘ ˢʷᵉᵃᵗᶠᵃᶰᵗᵃˢ ᶦ ʷᵃᶰᵗ ᵗᵒ ᵐᵃᵏᵉ ʸᵒᵘ ˢʷᵉᵃᵗᶠᵃᶰᵗᵃˢ ᶦ ʷᵃᶰᵗ ᵗᵒ ᵐᵃᵏᵉ ʸᵒᵘ ˢʷᵉᵃᵗᶠᵃᶰᵗᵃˢ ᶦ ʷᵃᶰᵗ ᵗᵒ ᵐᵃᵏᵉ ʸᵒᵘ ˢʷᵉᵃᵗᶠᵃᶰᵗᵃˢ ᶦ ʷᵃᶰᵗ ᵗᵒ ᵐᵃᵏᵉ ʸᵒᵘ ˢʷᵉᵃᵗᶠᵃᶰᵗᵃˢ ᶦ ʷᵃᶰᵗ ᵗᵒ ᵐᵃᵏᵉ ʸᵒᵘ ˢʷᵉᵃᵗᶠᵃᶰᵗᵃˢ ᶦ ʷᵃᶰᵗ ᵗᵒ ᵐᵃᵏᵉ ʸᵒᵘ ˢʷᵉᵃᵗᶠᵃᶰᵗᵃˢ ᶦ ʷᵃᶰᵗ ᵗᵒ ᵐᵃᵏᵉ ʸᵒᵘ ˢʷᵉᵃᵗᶠᵃᶰᵗᵃˢ ᶦ ʷᵃᶰᵗ ᵗᵒ ᵐᵃᵏᵉ ʸᵒᵘ ˢʷᵉᵃᵗᶠᵃᶰᵗᵃˢ ᶦ ʷᵃᶰᵗ ᵗᵒ ᵐᵃᵏᵉ ʸᵒᵘ ˢʷᵉᵃᵗᶠᵃᶰᵗᵃˢ ᶦ ʷᵃᶰᵗ ᵗᵒ ᵐᵃᵏᵉ ʸᵒᵘ ˢʷᵉᵃᵗᶠᵃᶰᵗᵃˢ ᶦ ʷᵃᶰᵗ ᵗᵒ ᵐᵃᵏᵉ ʸᵒᵘ ˢʷᵉᵃᵗᶠᵃᶰᵗᵃˢ ᶦ ʷᵃᶰᵗ ᵗᵒ ᵐᵃᵏᵉ ʸᵒᵘ ˢʷᵉᵃᵗ
*slow claps*
*steps out of the shadows*
Heh... not bad, kid. Not bad at all. Your meme, I mean. It's not bad. A good first attempt. It's plenty dank... I can tell it's got some thought behind it... lots of quotable material...
But memeing isn't all sunshine and rainbows, kid. You're skilled... that much I can tell. But do you have what it takes to be a Memester? To join those esteemed meme ranks? To call yourself a member of the Ruseman's Corps?
Memeing takes talent, that much is true. But more than that it takes heart. The world-class Memesters - I mean the big guys, like Johnny Hammersticks and Billy Kuahana - they're out there day and night, burning the midnight meme-oil, working tirelessly to craft that next big meme.
And you know what, kid? 99 times out of a hundred, that new meme fails. Someone dismisses it as bait, or says it's "tryhard," or ignores it as they copy/paste the latest ****post copypasta dreamt up by those sorry excuses for cut-rate memers over at reddit. The Meme Game is rough, kid, and I don't just mean the one you just lost :^). It's a rough business, and for every artisan meme you craft in your meme bakery, some ****sucker at 9gag has a picture of a duck or some **** that a million different Johnny No-Names will attach a milion different captions to.
Chin up, kid. Don't get all mopey on me. You've got skill. You've got talent. You just need to show your drive.
See you on the boards...
