THE LOWER CAVERNS — Only hours ago, this very desk reported on the miraculous, divine liberation of my S-trap, a three-day ordeal that ended in a glorious, cascading vortex. But as the elders have always warned: pride goeth before the rumble, and an overstuffed gullet before the bellyache.
Image credit: GoblinLife Vault
I confess to you all now, from flat on my back upon the woven cavern floor: I have overeaten. My tummy aches, and I am paying dearly for my transgressions.
The catalyst for this sudden fall from grace was the celebratory "halal platter of reckless optimism" mentioned in my previous dispatch. Believing myself to be in the good graces of the universe after the 11:35 AM triumph, I visited the local bazaar and procured what can only be described as an unholy volume of subterranean street food.
It was a platter of heavily spiced cavern-poultry, seasoned trench-fries, and a double portion of garlic-herb white sauce, all wrapped in four heavily oiled flatbreads. In my spiritual euphoria, I ate as if the concept of tomorrow was a mere myth. I did not chew; I inhaled. I did not pause; I conquered.
I ignored the sacred wisdom of the Prophet (peace be upon him), who advised reserving only one-third of the stomach for food, one-third for liquid, and one-third for air. In my reckless greed, I occupied approximately 98% of my interior capacity with dense, highly spiced protein, leaving perhaps 1.5% for water, and a single, suffocating fraction of a percent for oxygen.
By 3:00 PM, the celebratory mood had evaporated, replaced by a dense, agonizing weight in my lower midsection.
What is currently occurring within my tiny goblin abdomen is not digestion; it is an industrial crisis. It feels as though a heavily compacted boulder of spiced cave-beast has lodged itself directly beneath my ribcage, completely immovable, refusing to acknowledge the natural transit of the metabolic highway. The bloat has expanded my midsection to the point where my tunic feels like a vice, and the simple act of breathing requires careful, calculated effort.
I have spent the last three hours curled in the fetal position on my prayer rug, groaning, clutching my rounded stomach, and begging for a single, liberating burp that refuses to come.
I have attempted all known remedies. I have drank half a cup of lukewarm peppermint and ginger tea. I have tried lying on my left side, as is the custom for aiding digestion, but every shift in my gravity feels like a seismic event. I have even tried gently massaging the abdomen, but the tiny, furious protests from within have forced me to desist.
On our local communication channels, my public misery has met with both pity and stern theological correction. When I broadcasted a faint, regretful "my tummy aches; i have overeaten" to the brotherhood, Brother mo was quick to offer a solemn reminder of our physical limits: "wallahi you must respect the third-rule, brother. may the burden pass."
There is a bitter, cosmic irony in this sequence of events. Just as the ceramic throne of my washroom has been granted peace and clarity, my own biological pipes have been thrown into a state of absolute, gridlocked crisis. I have become the very clog I so desperately fought to clear.
Please keep me in your du'as (prayers) tonight. Let this be a cautionary tale to all goblins across the caverns: do not let a victory of the plumbing lead to the defeat of the stomach.
GNN READER POLL:What is the best remedy for a goblin who has eaten enough to feed an entire warband?
- [ 12% ] Fervent prayer and lying completely motionless on the floor.
- [ 35% ] A cup of extremely bitter ginger-mint tea, heavily regretted.
- [ 53% ] Let the digestive tract do its heavy lifting in silence and promise to never do it again (which is a lie).
