Hashtag_Dragon_Hatcher

Why hasn't this happened yet?

First of all, this story was supposed to be written awhile ago. Two hours at least. Eighteen years at most. I'd say that it could've been written before that even, but if it had then I wouldn't be the one writing it. Of course, I have to be the one to write this story, because I'm the only one who's heard enough to tell it properly.

Second of all, this is the story of my father. He is, to be quite Frank, an idiot. I say that for two reasons. The first is that his name is literally Frank. His parents thought that Frankfort was a good name for their child. Needless to say, we've taken care of that problem and they're in a good rest-home now, but that's not the point. 

The second reason that I say my father was an idiot is that only an idiot would decide to record a dragon hatching. 

My dad was walking home one day. He decided that he was gonna take the back road, because when there is an angry band of high schoolers who have decided that they're gonna be out for your blood the wise thing to do is take the back way, so, naturally, he did. Along the way he was kicking some rocks, as you do when you're being depressingly introspective about your life, and this caused him to find a dragon egg. 

The first thing he noticed was the screaming. Well, he says it was more of a howl, or a screech, but I think screaming works for the context. one of the rocks, a smooth brown one, when he kicked it, let out a long, pained, squeaking noise as it flew off the path. My dad obviously stopped, being taken by complete surprise, having never encountered a screaming rock before. 

This would be a good time to describe my dad. And by that I mean that I absolutely recognize this as one of the worst times to describe my father's physical appearance, but I don't care. You're just gonna have to deal with the story structure as I am the author and you are the reader, and so you have to submit to whatever I decide to write in whatever order I decide to write it in. Anyways...

My dad, a product of his era, was tall, skinny, and his chestnut-colored hair was styled horribly. Yes, this means he had a bowl cut. This alone was most of the reason that whenever he was vlogging for his social media he was always. Always. Wearing a hat. Eventually he decided to own it and coined his own nickname: The Heretical Jew. This was ironic because firstly, he wasn't a Jew, and secondly, knowing my father's sense of humor he probably chose the nickname because when read right it was a fancy way of calling himself Jesus Christ. But hey, at least no-one saw that horrid hair of his. 

My dad had started vlogging at a very young age. Like, eight years old. He had picked it up when he got his first smartphone and had discovered the video-recording feature. Immediately he started recording his life and publishing it online. Why not? It wasn't like it could hurt anyone or anything. His parents weren't going to stop him. They weren't going to encourage him either. They kind-of ignored him after he reached age six and lost his baby-fat. So he turned to the internet for attention—as you do, obviously—hence, the vlogging. 

This was when Frank pulled out his phone (the 'this' here refers to the narrative situation that was being described earlier, right after Frank kicked the rock that screamed). From here, you can just go watch his vlogs, you'll just have to scroll down far enough on his channel to find his earliest. In order to save you that pain though I have transcribed the important parts here:

"Yo dudes!" He said enthusiastically. one of the most irritating parts about vlogging is the fact that no matter what emotion you're feeling at the moment you must over-emphasize that emotion over the camera in order to keep the attention of your audience. 

"You'll never guess what just happened to me!" Frank said to the camera, "I was just walking home from school, minding my own business, when I kicked a rock and it yelled!"