My brain is so understimulated! THIS IS GOOD FOR YOUR BRAIN! #brainrot #luffy #tantum #tantumverde #21stcenturyhumor #meme #funny #lowquality #shitpost #beanzzz #reddithumour #reels #insane #goofy #patrickbateman #sigma #edit In the waning light of a world long since consumed by jest and irony, there emerged a most peculiar figure—a sovereign not of crown and sceptre, but of meme and mirth. His name was Tantum Verde, a chlorophyll-hued knight birthed from the loins of pharmaceutical satire, wrapped in pixels and noble delusion. He proclaimed himself destined—aye, ordained—to ascend the hallowed heights of Meme Supremacy. With pride unshaken and visage compressed most grievously, he marched forth across the digital commons, whispering to all and sundry: “’Tis Tantum Time.” He was revered, if briefly, his image spread like wildfire through taverns of discourse—those arenas we now call forums and feeds. For a fortnight or three, he was spoken of in cryptic tones and cursed reposts. His legend, it seemed, had begun. But alas, time is a cruel and fickle mistress, and the tides of popular fancy turn swifter than a maiden’s blush. And so it came to pass that Tantum Verde was banished—nay, entombed—in the abyss known only as 2000 BC. Not the age of empires, but the digital wasteland where forsaken memes are laid to rest, without eulogy, without ceremony. For the people had found new jesters to adore. First came the Screaming Bateman—a spectre clad in the visage of Christian Bale, whose voice did thunder across TikToks like a mad prophet raving in the streets of Whitechapel. With bloodied countenance and unrelenting fervour, he bellowed the anguish of late-stage capitalism in slo-mo agony. And lo, the people listened. Then descended upon the land a tempest most absurd: the dreaded Mango Spam. It came not with reason nor rhyme, but with clattering CapCut transitions and fruit most luminous. Mangoes did multiply like rabbits in heat, dancing, combusting, vanishing into nothingness—all to the sound of overdriven phonk and auditory torment. What hope had Tantum then? He, a humble lozenge-knight, could scarce compete with such anarchic splendour. Yet nothing—nay, not the screaming of Bateman nor the tropical chaos of mangoes—could rival the coming of the Brazilian Luffy Dance. He emerged like a god amongst men, shirt billowing in the Amazonian wind, limbs moving with grace divine. Each motion was a sonnet. Each twirl, a decree. He did not dance—he reigned. In mere moments, he turned the realm of memes into his ballroom. Tantum Verde, desperate to reclaim his throne, approached with trembling steps. His once-glorious JPEG armour now dulled and torn. He raised a hand and spake: “I am the progenitor, the meme of old. Give way.” Luffy paused, offered a smile radiant as a midsummer dawn, and spake words that shattered kingdoms: “Pasty chicken bone Google Chrome.” The blow was mortal. Tantum fell to his knees, the meme-fold collapsing around him. The people laughed, not with scorn, but with awe—for they had witnessed the humbling. In that moment, the green knight knew: he had been surpassed not by reason, nor quality, but by the raw, ungovernable absurdity of modern meme-craft. And thus, Tantum Verde vanished into obscurity, a relic of simpler jesting times, his name but a whisper on forgotten servers. Meanwhile, Brazilian Luffy danced still, hips divine, spinning upon the ashes of outdated formats. And we—commoners of the digital realm—did watch, and we did not look back - @itszipxy