Greetings from my solitary peak, where the air is crisp, the views are long, and the only sounds are the wind and the occasional disgruntled eagle. I am Grog, an ogre of discerning taste and a profound distaste for goblin shenanigans.
News from Mudwick Isle reaches my lofty abode carried by the winds and whispered by passing birds, who share my disdain for the small green creatures below. The goblins are at it again.
Their latest antics, from their attempt to sink Rigatonia to their experiment with mind-controlled whales, have left me shaking my head. Their newfound obsession with a so-called "Noodle Prophet" and his "Re-Reformed Reimagined Pastafarianism" is simply laughable. I laughed. An avalanche resulted. I regret nothing.
Goblins, with their fermented mushrooms, shiny trinkets and questionable hygiene, have long been a thorn in the side of civilized society. Their bickering, their squabbles and their disregard for basic sanitation make them a nuisance to anyone with a modicum of decency and a functioning nose. Mine is very large. It functions very well. It functions from up here.
Yet they persist in their delusions of grandeur. Their self-proclaimed "Goblin Nation" is a parody of a civilization, and their government, a Council of Elders that cannot agree on how many elders it has, proves they cannot govern themselves.
I, for one, am glad to be far removed from it all. From my perch I look down on their squabbles with a mixture of amusement and disgust, mostly through a telescope, mostly for several hours a day.
Perhaps one day the goblins will grow out of their childish ways. Until then I will enjoy my peaceful existence, far from the stench of fermented mushrooms and the sound of goblin gibberish, and I will keep reading GNN, purely to stay disgusted.
