"YEET,"
my father leapt from his 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, 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.

"YEEEEET!"
My father burst from my closet. "I told you I'd thump ya if I ever caught you hittin' that yeet, fuaack," he ejaculated. Then, he thumped me.
I haven't hit that yeet since...
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.

Ik own you bro