安裝 Steam
登入
|
語言
簡體中文
日本語（日文）
한국어（韓文）
ไทย（泰文）
Български（保加利亞文）
Čeština（捷克文）
Dansk（丹麥文）
Deutsch（德文）
English（英文）
Español - España（西班牙文 - 西班牙）
Español - Latinoamérica（西班牙文 - 拉丁美洲）
Ελληνικά（希臘文）
Français（法文）
Italiano（義大利文）
Bahasa Indonesia（印尼語）
Magyar（匈牙利文）
Nederlands（荷蘭文）
Norsk（挪威文）
Polski（波蘭文）
Português（葡萄牙文 - 葡萄牙）
Português - Brasil（葡萄牙文 - 巴西）
Română（羅馬尼亞文）
Русский（俄文）
Suomi（芬蘭文）
Svenska（瑞典文）
Türkçe（土耳其文）
tiếng Việt（越南文）
Українська（烏克蘭文）
回報翻譯問題
With confidence, I approached the podium. I gazed out upon the gathering of sad faces. I cleared my throat and leaned into the microphone.
"Yeet," I spake.
Suddenly, my father leapt from his hand-crafted mahogany coffin, the gunshot wound still in his chest. He sprinted up to the podium with the energy of a man without a gunshot wound in his chest.
"Y'all hittin' that dirty ♥♥♥♥in' yeet at my funeral?" he ejaculated. He raised his hand to thump me.
"Not so fast, pa." I grabbed his hand. "Yaint thumpin' no mo'."
My father looked at me with eyes as open as the gunshot wound in his chest. A tear fell from his right eye, which also had a monocle. "The student becomes the teacher," he said.
"The student becomes the yeetcher," I corrected him.