Reported so hard my reporting hand (right, fyi) gained a life of its own, clicking my mouse rapidly for 3 hours straight with such a tenacity it became clear arthiritis was the least of my worries, so clear was it that I could lose MY ENTIRE HAND to this bizarre possession. Suddenly my mouse smashed through my floor, pulling down my report hand as a hapless hostage. Smoke filled my bedroom and I woke up god knows how many hours later in a small village south of Aokigahara.
The people of this modest commune emerged slowly from their shacks, all of them viewing me with what I can
only describe as suspicion mixed with awe. Suddenly they began throwing spears into the air and running towards me. I SHAT BRICKS, but then they GRABBED ME and LUNGED ME INTO THE AIR, praising my name and kissing me. The chieftan came down later and over a feast-for-one explained I was to be crowned The Chosen One, the Kamisama of Reporting foretold in Nihonese folklore to appear in the year 2012. At this moment an old Japanese woman - she must've been 85 years old at least - began doing some kind of dance, spinning around in circles whilst singing "Sorairo Days" and throwing confetti into the air. I was DOWN with this state of affairs, let me tell you.
For 300 years I trained with the chieftan in his private dojo, reporting shitty threads, every day becoming quicker. At first I could report 10 threads per minute. After only 2 weeks I was up to 5 threads per second. After a century my KTPM (kuso thread per minute) rate rose to and stalled at 200 per second.
On the last day he graced our planet, my sensei bestowed one last task to me: the reporting of this thread, the shittest of all shit threads.
I did not respond with words. Rather, through our eyes he knew I would obey.
This one's for you, Otousan.