How To Roast A Bully So Bad He'll Cry
The Gurouth
A Diego Manifisto Gem
I’ve never actually roasted a bully so bad that he cried. At least not on the outside. However, I've had some epic comebacks in my day. One memory, in particular, I hold as my prized jewel. It started on the corner of two streets.
In the eighties, they didn't care about kids as much as they do now. Personally, I think they care a little too much about kids today but pardon my pontification, I digress. Where was I? Oh yeah, they didn’t give a crap about kids in the eighties. That's why I was made a crossing guard. This means I wore what looked like a plastic bright orange seat belt and told cars to stop (there was already a stop sign) so that kids could cross. In the streets where there were no crossing guards, vehicles and children alike followed the obvious rules of stop signs and rights of way. Pardon my pontification, I digress again… Or do I? Yes.
I did my job with the passion of a thousand stop signs. If I commanded a car to stop, it stopped. If I commanded students to cross, they crossed. The power was unexplainable. I would stand at my corner waiting for that first kid with an oversized backpack to arrive seeking my assistance and I would stand in the middle of the street while he crossed. There was no car waiting, but if there was, it would wait for me. Other times, cars drove up to the stop sign, paused or rolled or whatever, and kept going.
I, of course, allowed this since there were no students looking to cross the street in those moments. But when there were both cars and students, I operated my corner like a well-oiled machine. I was the Thanos of my street. I would not be dethroned - not even by a bully.
Then one day, I stood at my corner and my subjects congregated near me. They consisted of my younger brother and some other weird kids. I was running my machine effortlessly when Philip Davidson crossed with his goons. I allowed him to cross as I did my best to never discriminate. As he crossed to the other side, he turned his stupid face and said to his minions, “Hey look, it’s the nerd herd,” pointing back at us and laughing like an asthmatic horse.
Were we a herd of nerds? Yes. But let me explain two things. Firstly, nobody called us nerds but us. Secondly, back in the late ’80s nerds were not so amazing as they are now. That is part of the reason I seek to demoralize all nerds today so that they understand what it was like to grow up nerdy in my days. So when Philip called us the “Nerd Herd,” something within me said, “I don’t think he’s complimenting us.”
Although you’d never be able to tell it today, I was a frail youth. Although cars obeyed my command, I was not a boy of great stature or strength. That doesn’t mean I never fought back, it just means that I fought back differently. I burned them - or as some kids say, I roasted them. This situation was no different. So I said the first thing that came to my mind.
“Yeah? And you’re the leader of us.”
ROASTED!!!
I wish thousands were there to witness my comeback. I imagined it like two gladiators meeting each other in the Coliseum. One gladiator steps forward first.
“Hey look, it’s the nerd herd.”
The second simply says, “Yeah? And you’re the leader of us.”
The crowd roars. The first gladiator crumbles in humiliation - roasted to his very core.
In my situation, there were no crowds - only a few onlookers including my nerd herd (I can call them that; you can’t). But as the words came out of my mouth, Philip stopped dead in his tracks. My comeback obviously dug down deep. He turned toward me and with his head tilted bearing a look of both confusion and being appalled, he said, “What did you say?”
This is my favorite part. I said, “You heard me. And you’re the leader of it.”
I was like, bruh, how many times do you want me to roast you? The answer was twice. Listen, if you cannot fight with your fists against oppressors, then use your passive aggressive words to hit them where the sun don’t shine - the heart. That’s what people do on Facebook and Twitter so it must be the right thing. I often relive the look on his face when I told him “You heard me.” The infuriation almost caused his eye to glisten. He may have not outwardly cried but his failure to produce another comeback showed me that he was inwardly wailing.
So there you have it. That’s how to roast a bully so bad he’ll cry (at least inwardly). Oh, by the way, he ended up charging at me and we fought and since it was a cold day, his punch to my ear really stung, and I tried pounding on his back while he had me in a headlock but it seemed futile. He bruised my ear but I bruised his heart. So what? I still roasted him.
Glean from my Wisdom,
Diego Manifisto
