My Brain Got Rotted

Have you ever wanted more brainrot in your life? Have you ever wanted to be able to look at stories you thought you once knew, and take another perspective? If so, then I have a treat for you. Today, for the first time in history (probably, I haven’t checked), I am writing stories brainrot style. Today, I have the wonderful story of Moby Dick. It is narrated by someone who kindly asks we call him Ishmael, and it’s about his journey on the ship, Pequod. The captain, who is named Ahab, lost his leg in an attempt to kill a whale known as Moby Dick. Because of this, he is obsessed with finding and killing Moby Dick. In the end, he and the rest of his crew die, leaving only Ishmael alive. The part I have transformed is only the beginning, so none of the plot has started. Hopefully, this gets a lot of laughs because without further ado, I present to you, Moby Dick.

Moby Dick

Call me Sigmael. 6 or 7 or 21 years ago—never mind how long precisely—having little or no money in my gyatt, and nothing particular to intrust me on shore, I thought I would drive in my Piccione Macchina a little and see the watery part of the world (erm what the sigma). It is a way I have of driving off the spleen 🤔 in my Piccione Macchina and regulating the circulation. Whenever I find myself growing grim about the gyatt; whenever it is a damp, drizzly tralalero tralala in my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing before coughing warehouses, and fannum tax bringing up the rear of every funeral I meet; and especially whenever my hippos get such an upper hand of me , that it requires a strong moral principle to prevent brr brr patapim from deliberately stepping into the street, and methodically knocking mateo’s big bro’s skibidi off🤔—then, I account it high key time to get to sea as soon as I can. This is my substitute for pistols and balls. With a philosophical flourish, Cato throws himself upon his sword and his I-pad addiction and becomes an I-pad kid; I quietly take to the ship. There is nothing surprising in this. If Mr. Beast knew it, almost all Christiano Ronaldo’s in their degree, sometime or other, I very nearly had the same feelings towards the ocean as me.

There now is your ligma city of the bark bark bark, belted round by wharves as bruh isles by coral reefs—commerce surrounds it with her surf. Right and left, the streets take you to brr brr patapim.

The end (of part of the beginning)