Tuesday 5 January 2010

Symptoms of an MMO.

Ho, what’s this?

A letter in the mail?

Urgent help required!

From Lady Galadriel! Hmm, she wants me to join her army in the fight against the forces of darkness.

Well she could have phoned…

Nevertheless! It seems that Middle Earth is in need of my proven skills as a stout warrior of no mean accomplishment. Time is pressing: the tide of darkness encroaches ever forth, so I shall away to Lothlórien to aid them in their time of need immediately!

“Come to our lands” she calls, and I willingly answer the call!

Prove you ain't no scrub, yo.

Right after I’ve pandered to a bunch of her border guards, because apparently she’s too lazy to send them a mail to inform them that I’m on my way. I mean, how much would it take?

“Yo guys,

I’ve asked this dwarf homie over to hang out an’ kill stuff an’ shit, so don’t go killing him on sight or nuttin, yo. Chill, yeah?


Lady G”

Word to the allegedly wise: if you formally invite me into your lands to offer up my life to you in battle, you don’t then expect me to first be the errand-bitch of some hippy elf with an itchy bow finger on the border of your lands.

And why? Bringing some daft old bugger the missing half to their favourite socks which was lost in the nearby forest several ages of men ago, that will prove that I’m not an agent of the enemy will it? Killing some enlarged water voles and picking mushrooms will remove the centuries-long enmity of our peoples, will it?

I always knew elves were arrogant arses, but really.

So remember folks: when hosting a dinner party, always make your invited guests clear the front lawn of cat shit and weed the borders when they arrive, before letting them into the warmth of your home.

And if they don’t, set your dog on them. It’s the MMO way.

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