Anonymous
7/25/2025, 9:15:21 AM No.213070464
Deep within the tangled vines of The Harland Highway, a timeless ritual unfolds: the Comedy Duel of Wits. At the center of this jungle clearing sits Harland the Wise, a silverback sage known for his cryptic one-liners and banana-peel timing. But today, a challenger storms in: Sam Hyde, frothing, red-eyed, and desperate to assert dominance in unfamiliar terrain.
Hyde arrives ranting about the jews, snarling half-baked theories like a lemur on cough syrup. He insists the world is crumbling because primates are nesting in the wrong shrubbery and that synthetic fats have replaced masculine identity. The jungle listens. Crickets chirp. Harland blinks.
Then, like a coconut falling in perfect rhythm, Harland delivers:
“Sam, maybe the gorilla twigs were the friends we made along the way.”
Laughter erupts not from Sam, but from the trees themselves. The wind chuckles. The vines sway in agreement. Sam stammers, tries to double down, but Harland follows up with a tranquil jab:
“You’re yelling at imaginary cookies, Sam. The gorilla nest has moved on.”
Sam panics. He flails. He calls Harland a psyop. And in a final act of performative rage, he flips the podcast table, scattering mic cables like jungle vines in a storm. The nest is destroyed but not Harland. He remains calm, brushing a phantom crumb from his knee.
The contest is over. Sam Hyde, the failed jester, retreats into the foliage, muttering about linoleic acid and losing to a talking ape. Meanwhile, Harland adjusts his mental monocle and sighs:
“And thus, the gorilla nest remains untouched for true comedy builds, not breaks.”
The jungle roars in approval.
Hyde arrives ranting about the jews, snarling half-baked theories like a lemur on cough syrup. He insists the world is crumbling because primates are nesting in the wrong shrubbery and that synthetic fats have replaced masculine identity. The jungle listens. Crickets chirp. Harland blinks.
Then, like a coconut falling in perfect rhythm, Harland delivers:
“Sam, maybe the gorilla twigs were the friends we made along the way.”
Laughter erupts not from Sam, but from the trees themselves. The wind chuckles. The vines sway in agreement. Sam stammers, tries to double down, but Harland follows up with a tranquil jab:
“You’re yelling at imaginary cookies, Sam. The gorilla nest has moved on.”
Sam panics. He flails. He calls Harland a psyop. And in a final act of performative rage, he flips the podcast table, scattering mic cables like jungle vines in a storm. The nest is destroyed but not Harland. He remains calm, brushing a phantom crumb from his knee.
The contest is over. Sam Hyde, the failed jester, retreats into the foliage, muttering about linoleic acid and losing to a talking ape. Meanwhile, Harland adjusts his mental monocle and sighs:
“And thus, the gorilla nest remains untouched for true comedy builds, not breaks.”
The jungle roars in approval.
