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Written by DaveTheUseless.


Howdy y’all. My name is Vincent VanHornwinkle, and I really hate old people. Or so I was named. And so I did. And now, if you don’t mind your p’s and q’s around me Buster, you’ll be leavin’ with a fat lip, ‘cause someday you’re gonna need them more than ever. Y’see, I used to play pranks on the retirees around the ol’ block. Poured a vial of salt n’ gorilla glue down ol’ Ms. Johnson’s windpipe. Ah, and let’s not forget the ol’ ‘set the shoe on fire’ gag on bumblin’ Mr. Thompkins down the road. He didn’t even wear shoes with laces! Velcro and Dr. Scholl’s, a fate worse than dyin’ on a Friday. At Friday’s. “Why don’t you show some respect around here, boy!”, shouted mean man Mr. Horsefucker, but it don’t mean nothin’ to me that he was once President of NAMBLA. I always told them the same ol’ goshdurned thing, every single time they moaned n’ vented. “OK Boomer!”.

CREEPYPASTA- OK Boomer

CREEPYPASTA- OK Boomer

“Stop stealing our wine n’ sour crème keylime pies from the windowsill, Vincieboy.” “OK Boomer!”. “Stop looking up our eldest daughter’s dress, young man. You know that her beaver ain’t choppin’ down any logs anytime soon.” “OK Boomer!”. “Stop stealing our mail and replacing it with crayon letters claimin’ you’re President Trump n’ you’s gonna deport us out our taco stand.” “OK Boomer!”. Good times, good times. Or so I thought. For I… was ethically, morally wrong.

One night I went to bed. I usually stayed up late watchin’ the Jetsons or some other great show, but tonight I had to do my math homework, and I purposely don’t do it just to tick off mom n’ pa. I slumbered on off to sleep, countin’ sheep or jackrabbits or whatever, n’ had myself a nice little dream. I was a pony! Not just any ol’ pony, but a talkin’ one, hangin’ on out with my magical friends! We’d been branded with cute little symbols to hide that we were all slaves. They were supposed to reflect our personalities, but there ain’t no such thing. Underneath it all, you just a skeleton.

We’d eat apples in the orchard, try on oversized glasses, lick lollipops growin’ out of the ground, and piss into a barbed-wired garden hose for craps and giggles. My friend’s name was Purplebutteredpancake. I was KeylimeVixen, equine defender of the innocent and maker of delicious pastrami sandwiches. We were out on grandpappy’s farm when I stepped into a hole n’ I fell through. I let out a scream of horror, but it was no use. I plummeted for what felt like miles and came out the other side of the Earth in China, where people piss into coke bottles and firecrackers were once invented. Speaking of…

That’s when I woke up. I was not in my bed, and not even in a strawed-out cartoon pony stable, either. I felt a shiver, because it was so very, very cold outside. And because I was scared. Could it be? Why yes. Yes, it was.

Old man Jenkins had tied me up to a firecracker! A cyclops-sized Zeus Florescent Artillery Shell! I’d have turned around and stared ‘em down, but I was tied up. I couldn’t even shout anything—I was silenced by a gag featuring various shades of a purple-colored rainbow. Oh… but I could make out his tangoing little eyes in the carnival lights. They weren’t scary. Not red, no veins a-poppin. He was…

He was happy. His pupils were dilated. The festive carnival music mocked me as Ms. Johnson, Mr. Thompkins, and former President Horsefucker munched down on a three-person sized fiesta of blueberry apple flavoured cotton candy. “On the count of 3”, Mr. Jenkins began. “One… two… THREE!”

“OK BOOMER!”, they exclaimed, as I soared off into the sky and… I exploded. I was dead. I can only imagine that my blood n’ guts rained down on small town Equestria in a Christmas-worthy red and green gory, gory splendor.

Anyway… I guess you must be wondering how I’m telling you all this, but the fact of the matter is… those cow-lovin’ Buddhist monks from the middle east are kinda right. Rebirth is real, and my sweet lord, I’m living proof. I’m older now than I was back then, back in my previous life. I’m recordin’ this while readin’ from a dot matrix printout on ma mom n’ pop’s Hewlett-Packard, munchin’ down on an apple with the Publix grandma a-winkin’ on it. Let me unwind to about 19 years ago.

It was dark. Pitch black. It was scary. But I was moving. I was aware. Self-aware. But I knew nothin’ anyway. Yet I did. I retained a memory of a past self. A past version of me. A non-auto autobiography, if you will. I spun it around mah noggin’ a little more, and then I popped. Out of the hole.

Out of my new momma’s birth canal.

“What do you wanna name him?”, the doctor asked mommy dearest, disheveled. “Oh doctor. I knew his name ever since I first got knocked up.” “OK?”, the doctor responded, eyebrow furrowed in disgust at my 65-year old mother’s openness about her sexual escapades.

“Boomer.”

“OK”, the doctor sighed, takin’ the pencil out from behind his ear and scratchin’ on his armpit. “Boomer.”

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