You kids don't know how lucky you got it nowadays. Why, back when I was a young whippersnapper, we'd have to go out into the plains with spears, and we'd hunt, kill, and skin sandwiches in the afternoon heat; and then we'd hoist the carcasses back to the tribe where they would stored away for the long winter. As it happened, there came a time when the sandwich population wasn't what it used to be. We were just beginning to think that we wouldn't have enough food for everyone, when suddenly our hunting squad spied an alpha sandwich; we had a special name for these great beasts: Big Macs. Or was it Whoppers? My memory isn't that good anymore. Anyway this brute could easily last us through the winter, so we surrounded it, and then charged like a pack of wolves. Half-a-dozen spears must've hit it, but it didn't fall immediately. Instead it bolted, killing one of our members, and rampaged for about two hundred yards before finally dropping. The tribe was safe for another season.
But it wasn't a time for rejoicement; one of our own lay in the dirt, broken and beyond healing. When the dust had settled and we need not fear any more stampeding sandwiches, I realized the fallen member was my wife. In her last dying breath, she told me to take care of Jimmy John, our only son. We held a traditional burial rite out there on the plains. My heart was full of sorrow when we cut the sandwich up and packaged it for transportation, and it still aches to this very day. So I say to you, the generation of the future, don’t take what you have for granted. The love of my life was taken from me in the blink of an eye by a marauding sandwich, so don’t you go about life with one of them newfangled yolo philosophies. You cherish the life of yourself and your loved ones as much as you can, you hear.
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