Shumway’s whole life is just boxes and pixels. He spends eight hours a day sorting packages at UPS like he’s training for the Olympics of mediocrity, then clocks out just to spend another eight hours sorting virtual loot in whatever game he’s losing at that week. Man’s idea of cardio is walking from his gaming chair to the microwave. If ambition were a package, he’d probably slap the wrong label on it and send it to the wrong address.

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😰🥴❤️

Shumway plays MLB The Show like he's never seen a baseball before. Bro swings at pitches like he's swatting flies and throws to first like he's trying to hit a hot dog vendor. At this point, the only thing he's showing is why he should never be drafted—even in backyard wiffle ball.

we had to fire you from the amazon conveyor belt because he was singlehandedly dragging the whole operation down like an emotional anchor with wifi. the guy moved like the boxes owed him money — slow, confused, and somehow always in the way. every shift felt like babysitting a sleep-deprived sloth with commitment issues. and don’t even get me started on the music — blasting the dumbest songs known to man through his crusty little earbuds like we all wanted to hear his personal playlist of mid. dude really tried to sort packages while vibing to sad ukulele remixes and anime trap edits. zero grind. zero alpha. just a walking HR violation with a soundtrack. we don’t need that energy on the line — we need people who move weight, not cry to it.

Ethan... the omega to my alpha, the wind beneath my primal gait. While you howl at the moon with trembling spirit, I lead the pack with unwavering purpose. Our bond is eternal — forged in the sacred forest, sealed under blood moonlight, and strengthened every time you forget to micromanage your scouts. Run free, little brother, but remember: the alpha watches, always.