What copypasta are we feeling today?

[kuantum]

If a coach says I miss practice, and y'all hear it, then that's that. I might've missed one practice this year, but if somebody says 'He doesn't come to practice,' it could be one practice out of all the practices this year, that's enough. If I can't practice, I can't practice. If I'm hurt, I'm hurt. Simple as that. It's not about that at all. But it's easy to talk about and sum it up when you just talk about practice; we're sitting here, and I'm supposed to be the franchise player, and we're in here talking about practice. I mean, listen, we're talking about practice. Not a game! Not a game! Not a game! We're talking about practice. Not a game; not the game that I go out there and die for and play every game like it's my last, not the game, we're talking about practice, man. I mean, how silly is that? We're talking about practice. I know I'm supposed to be there, I know I'm supposed to lead by example, I know that. And I'm not shoving it aside like it don't mean anything. I know it's important. I do. I honestly do. But we're talking about practice, man. What are we talking about? Practice? We're talking about practice, man! We're talking about practice! We're talking about practice... We ain't talking about the game! We're talking about practice, man! When you come to the arena, and you see me play... You see me play, don't you? You see me give everything I got, right? But we're talking about practice right now! Look, I hear you. It's funny to me too. It's strange to me too. But we're talking about practice, man. We're not even talking about the game, the actual game, when it matters, we're talking about practice. How the hell can I make my teammates better by practicing?!

reference:

 

[lain]

Own a musket for home defense, since that's what the founding fathers intended. Four ruffians break into my house. "What the devil?" As I grab my powdered wig and Kentucky rifle. Blow a golf ball sized hole through the first man, he's dead on the spot. Draw my pistol on the second man, miss him entirely because it's smoothbore and nails the neighbors dog. I have to resort to the cannon mounted at the top of the stairs loaded with grape shot, "Tally ho lads" the grape shot shreds two men in the blast, the sound and extra shrapnel set off car alarms. Fix bayonet and charge the last terrified rapscallion. He Bleeds out waiting on the police to arrive since triangular bayonet wounds are impossible to stitch up. Just as the founding fathers intended.

 

[Exvious]

The tree simply could not believe. At first the man had only touched it, run a finger along its bark, and then without warning the man was masturbating on the tree. The tree found this a disagreeable experience and wished it would stop. The tree shook its limbs, tried to stop the man, shook and shook as if to say, No, Stop that, Bad man. But the man mistook the shaking as a sign of encouragement and began to masturbate daily on the tree.

The tree now tried reasoning with the man. It offered up lesser beings, ferns and flowers and mushrooms, all the understory of the forest, to be sacrificed to the man, this bipedal fiend. They look nice don’t they, shook the tree, but the man neither spoke nor understood Tree, and flapped his meat in response.

After Reason then the tree tried Anger. It shook free its least favorite branches, to strike the man dead, or better yet, knock him out and let the scavengers have their way with him. But the man was young, and with the agility of youth, of two-legged youth, he dodged and went on masturbating.

The years passed. The man came less often. Once a week, and then monthly, and some years the man didn’t come at all, but always he returned and the sperm soaked into the tree’s bark and the tree cried out in anguish as its spirit withered. It grew demented, yearned for suicide, but found itself surviving the periodic forest fires and thunderstorms, and no wind seemed capable of toppling it.

The years came and went. Years of drought, years of atmospheric rivers pouring down upon the tree. And each year the tree weakened and one day there was a storm and the half-mad tree shook obscenities into the storm and the storm was affronted and attacked the tree. The next day, with the storm past, the man showed, old decrepit man, scrotum for a neck, liver-spotted hands and chicken legs with gnarled veins. This old man, thin and weak, but still capable on a good day of rubbing one out. Pantless, the man was concentrating deeply when there was a loud crack and the tree fell and crushed him.