GREETINGS, Typhoon Andrew.
And GREETINGS, all you blog readers of blogs that aren’t mine. Not sure why you
bother, what with mine being your one-stop destination for Ground Zero Awesome, but
whatever, there’s no accounting for poor taste and stupidity. WHAT UP?
Holiday greetings from the great and awesome Garrosh Hellscream, Warchief of the
Horde, chieftain of the Warsong clan, hero of Northrend, champion of the Mag’har, and
all-around cool guy.
So for some reason I CAN’T IMAGINE WHY, I let Eitrigg talk me into signing up for
this Furtive Father Winter gift exchange with other bloggers. And I had this whole batch
of ideas for what I was going to do for mine, and then I went and looked into the name I
got…and…turns out, this Mortigen guy, or Typhoon Andrew, or whatever alias he’s using
these days…is freaking ALLIANCE?
So, okay, revision to the gift plan.
How about this – for starters, as my gift to you, I will NOT use this address they gave
me to COME HUNT YOU DOWN and slaughter you. Not even after I take into account
that you’re apparently a freaking DRAENEI, which means I owe you a little something
extra for the gift your people hand-delivered to the orcs – you know, when you LED THE
BURNING LEGION TO DRAENOR. Thanks a bunch for that, by the way. That was
the gift that kept on giving, let me just tell you.
But since “no vicious albeit totally justified evisceration” doesn’t really wrap nicely to
put under the tree, I suppose I should include something else. So here, how about this,
courtesy of what I do best (other than, you know, slaying Alliance and being generally
’Twas the feast of Great Winter and in Grommash Hold
Not a goblin was counting up goods bought and sold.
The eggnog was drunk and the cookies were eaten,
All dailies were done, and the Greench had been beaten.
The Warchief was nestled all snug in his bed
While spiked-eggnog hangovers grew in his head.
And Garrosh, in no mood to take any crap,
Was just drifting off to a Winter’s Veil nap.
When outside the Hold there arose such a clatter,
Garrosh heroic leapt to see what was the matter.
He raced up the stairs in his footie pajamas,
His gloves from Firelands, and his belt from Naxxramas.
He climbed to the attic and peeked through the blinds,
Expecting another fail raid he would find.
When what should he see, racing quick as a sprinter,
But a sleigh holding – you guessed it – Greatfather Winter.
He flew ’round the Hold and he circled the roof
As he brought the sleigh down with a clatter of hoof.
For eight reindeer pulled on his sled as it came,
And he whistled and shouted and called them by name:
“Now Arkham! Now Raze!” he cried, “Now Mortigen!
Now Quandalon!” And he whistled once again.
(And yeah, that’s not eight – but, not to be a jerk,
Finding rhymes for this crap is just way too much work.)
He landed the sleigh and he said nothing more,
Then he slid through the chimney and to the top floor.
The Warchief he turned, and much to his surprise,
Greatfather Winter appeared ’fore his eyes.
He landed inside with a bounce and a bump;
Garrosh groaned, “Man, security’s lax in this dump.”
But the old man just smiled and he said nothing back
Save “Hush, Garrosh!”, and turned, and he opened his sack.
He went to his work, full of smiles, energetic,
And filled up the attic with old welfare epics.
Garrosh scanned through the gifts, and he said, “Yeah, that’s fine,
But WTF, old man, what about mine?”
And Greatfather Winter, with hardly a care,
Pointed to the fireplace; a stuffed stocking hung there.
The Warchief ran over and yanked it right down;
But when he reached in, his smile turned to a frown.
“Oh no, old man,” he said, “you’re gonna be hurtin’,”
Then dumped out the stocking, just to be certain:
And onto the floor, tumbling out as a whole,
There piled out a heaping black mountain of coal.
The old man just shrugged and said, “Them’s the dice, sir;
Maybe next year you will try to be nicer.”
He closed up his pack and he started to turn,
While Garrosh’s anger worked up to a burn.
The Warchief then charged, grabbing Greatfather Winter,
Cracked his head to the mantle so hard that it splintered.
He yanked on his beard and he flung him around,
Then picked him up and threw him hard to the ground.
Garrosh yelled, “Stupid old man! So vain and so haughty!
You’ll see what you get for saying I was naughty!”
He pounced the old man and he bloodied his face,
While Greatfather cried, “You’re not helping your case!”
The beating went on, without mercy or pity;
I’ll spare you the details; ’twas not at all pretty.
But when the next morning arrived, all would see
A new gift for Garrosh was under the tree:
A shiny new sled was wrapped up with joy,
And it looked just like one Garrosh had as a boy.
On its back read “Mageroyal”; ’twas tied with a bow;
And a small, tidily written note sat below.
“Excuse the delay,” it read; “Clerical error” –
Fast corrected amid the wild rampage of terror.
There’s much here to learn, but let this suffice:
When you’re the Warchief, you don’t have to be nice.
So there you go. Don’t let anybody ever say I didn’t give you Alliance types anything.
Other than a world of hurt, but, you know. Anyway, see you soon, unless you see me
first, because if you do, that’s your one chance to run like hell.
Happy Winter Veil, and all that kind of crap,