A Guy Walks into a Psychiatrist's office...

Therapist: What brings here today, Mr.—

Kologarn: KOLOGARN.

Therapist: Right. What brings you here, Mr. Kologarn?

Kologarn: LAST WEEK, I FELT A TIGHTNESS IN MY CHEST. LIKE SOMETHING WAS SQUEEZING THE LIFE OUT OF ME. I HAD TO LIE DOWN. MY REGULAR DOCTOR SAYS NOTHING IS PHYSICALLY WRONG WITH ME.

Therapist: He thinks you might be suffering from panic attacks.

Kologarn: THAT GUY IS A JACKASS. I ONLY GO TO HIM BECAUSE HE IS IN-NETWORK.

Therapist: All the same, I think we should talk about what is going on in your life and maybe we can find a cause for your problems.

Kologarn: UNNECESSARY.

Therapist: Well. Why don’t you humor me? Tell me about your work. When you made the appointment, you told my assistant that you work as, uh, a raid boss in a chasm in Ulduar?

Kologarn: I STAND IN IT.

Therapist: Now I understand that your job is to defeat armies of adventurers who come to loot the ancient sanctum of the Old God Yogg Saron. What does that entail?

Kologarn: THE USUAL. OVERHEAD SMASH. FOCUSED EYEBEAMS. PETRIFYING BREATH. STONE GRIP. RINSE. REPEAT.

Therapist: And this fulfills you?

Kologarn: …

Therapist: You haven’t been satisfied with your career?

Kologarn: THINGS HAVE DRIED UP A LITTLE, LATELY.

Therapist: There haven’t been as many raiders, have there?

Kologarn: THEY NO LONGER COME.

Therapist: It hurts to feel abandoned.

Kologarn: …

Therapist: It’s okay for us to admit we hurt. There’s no shame in it.

Kologarn: ONLY A FLESH WOUND.

Therapist: Okay. And how are your relationships with co-workers?

Kologarn: …

Therapist: It’s difficult, isn’t it? Not having a hard mode?

Kologarn: NOBODY SAYS ANYTHING. BUT I KNOW WHAT THEY’RE ALL THINKING.

Therapist: And how do you feel when your peers treat you with condescension?

Kologarn: …

Therapist: This is a safe space. I promise you. I want you to feel you can trust me. What passes between us stays right here. That door is an inviolable barrier. None shall pass, Mr. Kologarn. None shall pass.

Kologarn: …

Therapist: Do you trust me?

Kologarn: I GUESS.

Therapist: So why have you come here today, Mr. Kologarn?

Kologarn: …

Therapist: It’s okay to talk about your feelings.

Kologarn: …

Therapist: I am ready to listen. I am prepared to hear you.

Kologarn: ...

Therapist: …

Kologarn: I AM VERY SAD.

Therapist: I’m proud of you, Mr. Kologarn. We’ve made a lot of progress today.

In honor of Red Dead Redemption

How dreadfully embarrassing! I seem to have misinterpreted your gracious invitation, for I have arrived at this event with accouterments completely inappropriate for the afternoon’s planned activities. What an unfortunate faux pas. I certainly have egg on my face, don’t I? I wonder if any of the other attendees might have spare equipment which they could loan to a poor, embarrassed bungler. They do not? Perhaps we could reschedule?

I think, under the circumstances, this comic little misunderstanding was reasonable, and I hope it can be easily resolved. You see, the other day in the saloon, when you and I were both quite tipsy from the barkeep’s fine moonshine whiskey, and we were amorously eyeing the same twenty-five cent harlot. As an object of lust, she wasn’t terribly compelling, but there was a real fire to her spirit, once you looked past her lazy eye and her missing teeth and those strange, oozy yellow-green sores. And, as both of us found our entertainment options limited by the influence of the current macroeconomic tumult upon our personal finances, and since neither of us was in a patient mood, the question of who might have the first roll with her became a topic of some dispute.

As discussions became heated, I called you a dust-sucking sheep rapist, and you intimated that I was a worn-out drunk with a tendency to crawl upon my yellow belly. I expressed my belief that your cross-eyed mother must have been kicked in the belly by a mule to produce offspring as deformed and stupid as yourself. You claimed that my horse looked mangy and accused me of feeding it improperly and neglecting its grooming. Then you spat a thick brown liquid upon the floor, and I spat the juice from my own terbaccky chaw upon your newly-shined boots. You took grave offense.

At that point, negotiations broke down.

Ever helpful, I suggested that the dispute might be satisfactorily resolved were we to make something of it. To illustrate the point, I smashed a whiskey bottle on the bar, and menaced you with its jagged edge. Initially, you seemed amenable to exploring such mechanisms to satisfy our disagreement. However, you felt that the timing was inopportune for such activities; it was more to your convenience to reconvene today, at high-noon. I found I was available, and we made our date.

Based on the tone and context of our previous exchange, I had believed that you had invited me here for purposes of engaging in barroom brawling and fisticuffs, and I came equipped with this here Bowie knife, and a vague plan that I might jam it into your kidneys. Or, you know, cut your throat, or stab you in the eye. But you can imagine my surprise to learn that you had actually intended to invite me to duel with pistols. And here I am, without my sidearm or bandolier.

So, we’re left with a conundrum. If someone would be so kind as to lend me a reliable pistol, I would be happy to shoot you at ten paces. Alternatively, if you’d like to come over here, I’ll stick this knife into your guts. Or we can take a rain check. It’s really up to you.

What's up?

Here's an article I wrote for The Big Jewel:

http://www.thebigjewel.com/business-school-prepared-me-to-be-the-final-boss-of-a-video-game/

Here's a link to a blog I made for writing-related stuff:

http://somethingpersuasive.blogspot.com/

Also, I now have a literary agent, so I will let anyone who still keeps an eye on this know when I get a book deal.

Kanye Grabs The Mic!

ANTONY: Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears;
I come to bury Caesar, not to praise him.
The evil that men do lives after them;
The good is oft interred with their bones;

So let it be with Caesar.

KANYE: Yo, 'scuse me, Antony, I'm just gonna grab hold of the mic for a second if it's okay with you.

ANTONY: Well, I'm kind of trying to do something here, dude.

KANYE: Don't worry. It's cool.

ANTONY: No it's not. It isn't cool at all. I'm delivering my eulogy. This is kind of a big dramatic moment for me.

KANYE: And I'm really happy for you, Antony. I'm going to let you finish, but I want to talk for a minute about my boy, Marcus Brutus.

ANTONY: The noble Brutus
Hath told you -

KANYE: My man Brutus had one of the best assassinations of all time. One of the best assassinations. Of all time.

ANTONY: Uh, Brutus hath told you
Caesar was ambitious:
If it were so, it was a grievous fault,
And grievously hath Caesar answer'd it.

KANYE: OMG! I'M SOOOO SORRY.

ANTONY: Are we seriously-is this what we're doing now?

KANYE: I JUST TALKED TO ANTONY'S MOTHER AND SHE SAID THE SAME THING MY MOTHER WOULD HAVE SAID.

ANTONY: Here, under leave of Brutus and the rest -

JOE WILSON: You lie!

ANTONY: For Brutus is an honourable man;

JOE WILSON: YOU.

ANTONY: So are they all, all honourable men -

JOE WILSON: LIE.

ANTONY: Come I to speak in Caesar's funeral.
He was my friend, faithful and just to me.

KANYE: BOOOYAAAWWWW!!!

I need some help with my pants.

Original Thread

To whom it may concern:

Recently, I took part in some rather dashing and valiant heroics in the Argent Coliseum, and as a reward for my bravery, my guild awarded me Kel'Thuzad's Leggings of Triumph.

At first, I was very pleased about getting the loot, but after that initial surge of excitement wore off, I realized that I just can't wear these. The problem, you see, is the smell.

Now, I know Kel'Thuzad was a pretty great warlock, and he wore some pretty great warlocking pants. The stats on these are pretty awesome, and normally I'd feel very fortunate for a chance to wrap my goodies up in 140 spellpower. But these things are, to put it mildly, rank.

I don't know if Kel'Thuzad was too busy exploring the arcane depths of necromancy to pay attention to his personal hygiene or what. I know he was dead for a while. Maybe he was buried in these.

Sometimes, I think they reek of vinegary man-sweat. Sometimes I think they smell like rotting meat. What I know is that these things are just foul.

I do know that the folks at the laundry won't take them. I took them back to the vendor five minutes after I got them, and the crooked little jerk insisted my two hour refund period was already expired.

I don't know what kind of crap Tirion is trying to pull here, handing out used and soiled pants as a reward for killing demon lords and high-ranking lieutenants of the Lich King, but I've had about enough of this. Tell Tirion I am not pleased to be getting epic rewards that come complete with Kel'Thuzad's Skidmarks of Triumph, along with several other disturbing looking stains of indeterminate origin.

Heroes of the Alliance deserve better treatment.

LOLrus

Original Thread: http://forums.worldofwarcraft.com/thread.html?topicId=19820874414&sid=1

FYI: http://www.wowhead.com/?quest=11960

Elder Walrus: "Hi. I'm a walrus. We're the good guys. I promise."

Player: "Okay."

Walrus: "There are some guys we don't like. Their village is up on that hill."

Player: "Okay."

Walrus: "So I've got this sack right here."

Player: "I see."

Walrus: "What you are going to do is take this sack over to their village and fill it with their babies. As many babies as you can steal, just go ahead and stuff them in this sack."

Player: "Uh, what?"

Walrus: "Sack full of babies. Bring me a sack full of babies. Like, a dozen."

Player: "I don't know how comfortable I feel doing this."

Walrus: "By the way, the guys we don't like are dog guys, so the babies you're stuffing in a sack are also puppies."

Player: "Seriously?"

Walrus: "Yeah. We're planning for the future. We're raising them to be seeing-eye babies for blind walruses. It's totally charitable."

Player: "But I don't see any of them running around Walrus-town."

Walrus: "Dude. Don't worry. We're totally not going to eat the babies. Do I look like a guy who would eat a baby?"

Player: "I didn't say anything about eating them."

Walrus: "Right. That is crazy-talk. But if you want to come back tomorrow around lunchtime and swipe us another sackful, that would be awesome."

I am a BG PvPer

Original Thread: http://forums.worldofwarcraft.com/thread.html?topicId=19820633894&postId=198187908744&sid=1#0

I've capped my honor and my marks, but don't worry, buddy, I am still here, standing in the road between Blacksmith and Gold Mine in Arathi Basin, fearlessly clutching my Titansteel Destroyer, and getting ready to bring the thunder. Don't worry, though. I won't Hamstring you as you run by on your mount. I don't even have Hamstring on my click bar, because it doesn't do any damage.

I am the hardcore BGer. When the other side holds every graveyard up to our relief hut in Alterac Valley, my friends and I will bellow our battle cries and defend the keep until the game ends in a resource victory. Did you know AV used to take DAYS to finish a match? It was GLORIOUS. If I could make it take days now, I totally would, because time has no meaning to me. It stops when I am charging into a crowd of enemy players to rack up my 24th death of the match.

Don't fuss at me that the gate is down in Isle of Conquest. I am engaged in epic battle in the quarry with a foolish warlock who was impudent enough to go AFK. My victory here was preordained, and the fact that the enemy has assaulted our keep will do little to diminish my glory when I triumphantly spam my /sit macro over his corpse.

I am a vessel of wrath and a deliverer of truth. I care not for Strand Demolishers, for I know the only honorable vehicle is a Wintergrasp Catapult. I need no honor and I scoff at marks. I can't buy anything anyway, because I will not duel in a box for gear. I should get gear for my deeds on the field of Battlegrounds, without having to prove anything to any arena scrubs.

The game has gotten worse, lately, for hardcore BGers like me. The reduced resources required for victory mean that I get less time in each battle to control the vital roads of Arathi Basin, or battle valiantly for the flag in Eye of the Storm. In Warsong Gulch, where flags matter less than in Eye, a new time limit has curtailed the joyful midfield heroics I love undertaking as the cowardly flag carriers hide in their bases.

But, despite these setbacks, I will persevere. As I've honed my skills, my teams have begun winning as many as one game in six, a vast improvement over prior performance. When other players see that I am on their side, they groan and mutter under their breath, because they know that, in this battle, their deeds will be overshadowed, for they walk with a titan (I specced into Titan's Grip, even though I don't have a second 2H yet).

They will never match my boldness. They will never match my ferocity. They will never match my dogged sense of purpose. I don't stop to gem my sockets. I don't stop to enchant my gear. I am a killing machine with only one setting, and that setting is kill.