Kobold King

I drive myself mad wondering why you do it. Year in, year out, doing the same old thing for a world that just keeps changing on you. Nothing's the same over the years except you. And you don't even act like it fazes you. Your beard is never whiter. Your face never has any more wrinkles than last year. I don't know if I'm strictly ungrateful for the things you do. Last year's train set was pretty awesome, and my sister loved her pitcher's glove. I smiled. She smiled. Mom smiled. We all smiled because of you. It's just... You remind me of my uncle. He was a big guy like you. Always a smile on his face. He only came around every Thanksgiving, and I'm at least ninety percent sure it was Mom's turkey that lured him in. We all loved him so much--he was just a cool uncle, you know? He'd pull a quarter out of your ear and let you keep it. He'd make Mom scowl at him by teaching us how to have sword fights with sticks in the yard. He was the kind of guy who made the holiday feel so much more special just by being there, grinning down at you and sharing the merriness around. He was also a raging alcoholic and a con man. He's lost weight in the postcards, though. Orange really brings out his complexion. Look, I'm not saying... I just think... ugh. I'm only writing this stupid letter to sort out my feelings. You remind me of our pastor. Mom takes us to help out at the food pantry every Wednesday, and he's always there. He's a stiff guy in a nice suit, but he's all smiles. He tells us how much God loves us, which I don't doubt. He tells us how important it is to help the needy, which I don't doubt. But while we're carrying boxes of beans and helping sort all the food on the shelves, all he does is stand in the entrance hall listening to raggedy poor people tell him "God bless you" all day. I guess it's important that the homeless people come in and meet a smiling face, but it just feels... it just feels like he could be doing more, you know? It feels like he's just lapping up the praise when he could be helping. I mean... Look at you. Look at all the things you can do. You're amazing. You can do things that make Harry Potter look like a documentary on card tricks. And every year you use all that power just to make little children happy. That's amazing, right? You're amazing, right? But... There are people dying. There are people who don't have enough food. There are people who don't have enough water. There are people who are sick and don't have medicine. There are people being hurt by other people. There are people on the streets who don't have blankets and might wake up as a frozen poverty-sicle. You could deliver a hot steaming bowl of soup to every hungry person in the world in the time it takes me to write this letter. You could bring people medicine instead of toys. Bring them water instead of milk and cookies. I guess... You... You remind me of Dad. He only came at Christmas too. He'd come in the door, nod at Mom, and come sweep us up in a big bear hug. He'd reach under his jacket and give us both a present. He'd say that you let him bring those ones early. Then he'd play games with us. He'd talk about proud he was of me, how clever I was for my age. He'd rave about how great my sister was at baseball. He'd make us feel special. He'd make all of Christmastime special for us just by being there. At least... he used to. He was there to make us smile there at Christmastime, but where is he now? He stopped coming. He took care of us at Christmastime, but where was he the rest of the year? Where was he when I skinned my knee? Where was he when the truck hit our puppy? Where was he when I actually needed him? I just... agh. I worry, you see. I see you grinning at me from Christmas cards. From gift wrappings. I see you on TV and in movies and on the ornaments we put on the tree. Everyone loves you. Everyone talks about how great you are. How kind you are. How much you want to take care of us. And I start getting angry. I worry that you're my uncle. All smiles and fun, but rotten inside. I worry that you're my pastor. Just lapping up praise while everyone else does the real work. I worry... I know that you're my dad. You're not there for us when we need you. You're all baubles and milk and cookies while people who need your help are hurting. And I keep getting more angry, 'cause when I write this I know that I'm right. There's nothing stopping you from helping more, is there? There's no magic stopping you. You just like having everyone talk about how wonderful you are! You don't want to be sweating in Africa helping people. You're not just magical, you want people to know how magical you are. You want people to write poems about how great and mysterious you are. You want people to make movies about you. You want all the children in the world to think you're the coolest thing ever. You want suckers like me to write you letters. I'm right, aren't I? You could help, but you WON'T. You could solve all the problems in the world in one night, but you WON'T. You could be there for us, but you WON'T. Now I know what you are. Now I know not to smile back at your stupid face on the postcards. Now I know to save our milk and cookies and feed them to the pigeons or something. Merry Christmas, you fat egomaniac. -----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I'm actually worried that I'm stunting myself by writing nothing but RP posts. Since I usually write only one side of a conversation, I really suck at dialogue. But you have nothing to worry about, Twi. I've seen your writing in all of its forms, and it's magnificent.

Precisely. "Random stuff V" is an offshoot of the Random Stuff family. It would only be an authentic member of the family tree if it were spelled "Random Stuff V."

Pretty much exactly what it says on the tin. Treat other people with the utmost love and respect possible. For all but the very most broken and shattered of humans, who still themselves ultimately desire some form of happiness or contentment, this equates to treating them like you'd like to be treated yourself. Death itself is only the goal if you are seeking total oblivion; if you wish to cease existing. I don't believe anyone wants this, but that some people wish for this as they find it preferable to the pain or monotony of existence. If your desire is to wind up in heaven, then your end goal is eternal happiness. Death (and in the case of Jihadists, murdering others) is merely a means to an end.

Again, what Jihadists do is not the Golden Rule by any feasible stretch of the imagination. The Golden Rule is about respecting other people's right to choose life or death with the same freedom you desire. The Golden Rule does not give license to kill others just because you yourself don't mind dying for your cause. (Side note: they all believe they're getting a hundred or so virgins in heaven. They're using death as a means to an end, not as a goal in and of itself.)

Nah, the RP storm won't last that long. People will get bored and get back to posting normal--or at least, vaguely more normal random stuff in no time.

No offense, but I feel you kind of skipped past the entire point of my post. People who commit suicide are seeking escape from misery. In other words, they're trying to find happiness, or at least relief in the only way they know how. If a sick old man requests euthanasia, do you really think death is ideal to him? Or do you think that given the choice he'd rather be young and healthy again? If a young woman commits suicide, do you think that she'd really, truly reject a clear life of happiness in favor of the cold embrace of death? The fact that life is cruel enough to trick people into dying does not mean that life and happiness aren't what people ultimately desire. EDIT: My apologies for rudeness. It was not my intent to offend or otherwise upset anyone.

Well, yeah. I'd like for someone to walk up on the street and give me his candy bar. That doesn't make it right if I take it from him. The Golden Rule does not and has never stated that you have the right to anything you want solely because it'd make you happy to have it. The point of the Golden Rule is for you to put other people's desires on an equal level to your own, not to elevate your own. Treating other people like you'd like to be treated doesn't mean tyrannize over them. It means that you afford them the same respect and freedom that you want! It's a very simple system, which is why it's so powerful. There is literally no way to abuse it without utterly twisting its meaning.

I challenge your reasoning on the grounds that there is no one who actually wants to die. Have you ever raised sheep? I have. I had a small but wonderful flock up in Illinois. They frolicked in the fields, grazing to their hearts' content and enjoying the company of their fellow sheep. Then winter would arrive at the doorstep. It would get cold. One of the sheep would catch the chill in her lungs and fall ill. We'd have to stick the ewe in a stall and try to keep her warm, fighting a twofold battle: keeping her body from dying, and keeping her mind from wanting to die. Not everyone realizes that a sheep can lose the will to live. When they're apart from the rest of the flock, scared, sick, and alone, the urge to survive isn't as strong as in a normal sheep. You can see it in their eyes. A hollowness. The zeal for life retreating from the poor animal's soul. But here's the thing about the zeal for life--you can't lose it unless you already have it, and every living thing is born with it. When that sheep was dying in her stall, she didn't actually desire death. What she desired most of all, whether she understood it or not, was to be frolicking with her flock on a warm summer day again. She was happy then, and she wouldn't be this miserable if she didn't at some level want to return to that state. Have you ever been to an industrial chicken farm? Not a lot of people realize that a chicken can lose the will to live. The chickens, cramped in their cages away from the sunlight, have often not felt the natural joy of foraging and roaming the outdoors in all their lives. Their eyes are dead. They give a terrible, cacophonous squawk that you'd never hear a natural-raised chicken emit. Sometimes they just drop dead for no reason, like the spark of life within them was abruptly snuffed out by their terrible conditions. But again, even the chickens didn't truly want to die. Truth be told, they didn't know what they wanted. They couldn't know that they longed for sunlight because they'd never seen the sun. They couldn't know they wanted to eat fresh earthworms instead of their dry crumble because they'd never seen earth. What they'd needed to be happy had been separated from them, and they elected not to live rather than live without it. My point is that you can't challenge the consistency of the Golden Rule with people who want to die because no such person exists. Even the most morbidly depressed suicidal person in the world is only wasting away because he's been cut off from the happiness he truly needs. Death is not something that a single living thing wants. It's only preferable to some alternatives. The Golden Rule understands this. It operates on the assumption that all things desire happiness, and we should work to grant this happiness to as many living things as possible. You cannot use the skewed perspectives of broken, tragic spirits to challenge this idea. Because when you bring them up, you're not talking about people the Golden Rule doesn't apply to. You're talking about the people who need the Golden Rule applied to them the most.

The Kobold looks around. "Things got a bit tense in here, didn't they? Here is some lovely relaxation therapy from the other side of the galaxy, to soothe the nerves."

To me, the fact that we're all told to behave this way but so few of us actually do is the best evidence for the existence of some sort of God. After all, if the Golden Rule were just a genetic program we evolved with, shouldn't it be recognizable in more cultures' ways of life? Shouldn't it be easier to practice? Personally, I see religion and history as the story of a Creator Whose creations rebelled against him and began hurting each other, with Him working tirelessly to get them to be nice to each other ever since. I don't see him as a tyrant or as a busybody who spoke down from heaven just to tell us not to be gay. I see Him as an entity Who epitomizes the Golden Rule and just wants us to live in harmony. But I suppose I'm derailing the thread that was created to stop another thread derailment.

And yet the Golden Rule, which was expressed by Christ to be the single most important idea in the entire religion, is fairly simple, objective, and impossible to twist. Treat others like you would like to be treated. If you wouldn't want your own children stolen away from you, don't do it. If you wouldn't want aliens to come onto your land, claim it, and shoot you for being on it, don't do it to other humans. If you wouldn't want to be put in shackles and worked to death in a mine, don't do it. If you wouldn't want someone to shout at you for your beliefs, don't do it to other people. A lot of Christians ignore it in favor of twisted interpretations of other verses, but I firmly believe the Golden Rule is the single core of morality that should hold true across the entire universe.

The Kobold King pulls a fire extinguisher emblazoned with the mark of the green arrow from his small backpack, spraying the passerby and putting out the mystical flames. "There shall be no harm coming to these people. Especially not from a bored eldritch horror who wants to fragment fragile human minds with cheap parlor tricks from the higher dimensions."

"Pffft. Who traverses the planes without a flame-retardant soul these days?"

T̯̞̟̦̫̂ͦ̒̅̊ͮ́̽h̙̩̺͕̠̦ͨͣ͒̒ͅe̬͙̞͔͔͖ͬ̐̎ ̺͉̜̮͙̊̍ͮ̒̊ͧl̰̻̞̖̐̃̅͗ͣa̺̍ͭ͛̆ͅn̖̹̞̟͚̯̽̏̚g͓̪̜̜̺ͬ̌u̪̹̟̺͕̪͙̭͐͆à̘̩̾̔͑̇ͩg̮̙͚͚̪̖̊͌ͮͭe̼͖͙̘͔̤̔͑ͥ̉̾ͅ ̼̫͙̩̝̄͑̊̅̽̉̑ó̗͕͎͉͔͍̦̻͊̈́̊̓̔ḟ̝ͅ ̟̺̱̉́ͯ͐ͩ̿ͪͪ͛t̠̳̲͍̙͕̬̩̆ͭͮͩ̈́ͦ̀̓h̰̠̖͇̓ë̠̄ͭͯͩ ̬̬͎̘̮̔̌̓̂̾̆̀͊̄E̖͔̠̐̐̊l͈̪̳ͬͥ̊̈ͧ̆̓ͣd̻̠̭̯̆̏͊͑e͇̞͚̖̗̲̩͖ͪͣ̄ͫr̲͇ͨ̏̎̅̽ ̰̱ͦ͋̀ͪ͋G̺͎̹ͯͧ̔̌̇͊̓o̟̹̎̾ͭ̈́̍d͎̪̙ͧ͆ͦs̳͕̮̪̊͌ͯ̑ͨͭ ̙̥͍̤̹̣ͯ͛̇ͥi̞͕͖͕̼̘̓͌ͬ̄s̪͈̮͔̺̅̎ͮ̄̐͑͑̓ͪ ̰̞͎̬̟ͣ̍ͪ͊ͪ̋͌ͤͣa̤̭̒ͤ̈́ͧ͂̎̚ ̰͈̹̆̾ͣͣt̯̣͉̚h̭̪̘͚̯̃ͣ̂̓ͭ́ḭ̥͇͖͓̝̺͕̐͂̒̋n͖̮͔̲̣̥̯͍͕̎̉̉ͧ̈̉̏g̞͍̠̺̫̮̮̺͐ ̮̞̭̜̰͕̜̯̖̉̍͗̇͐͐b͎͍̲͇̠̌̓̉̆̌̓ͅe̥̣̩̟̽ͣ̋̌̈̊̒̿ỹ͚͉̟̗̲̖͗̇ͮͪͫo͖̳̘̜̓ͥ͆̉ͅͅn̩͒̈̀d̰̠̱̳̠͖̰̾̍̽͒̐ͭ̔̀ ̪̫̠̠̼̀ͤ͗̿ẏ̗̠̻̗͇̗̹͋͗̉͑ͥ̃o͓̩͓̥͓͕̻̫͂̇̒̍ṷ̐ͥ͋̚̚.̝͓̇̈̃̒͋ ̟̗̦ͮ̊̄̒̐̃̽̾ͦD̤͖̲̥̺̓͋ͮo͎̱̯͓̙͍̤̰̯̓ͪ ͎͖͖̫̦̺̙̍̈́ͪṋ̯͕̻̼̜̮̗̂̍ͮ͆̀ͫͧ̄o̺̤̠̼̘ͧ̇̽ẗ̼̠̤̟̘ͬ̈́ͮ̓̏ͨ͌̃ ̱͐͌͛̔ͯ̊s̗̜̪̖͖͎̃̋͌͗̆͐̀̈͂ͅẽ͔̞͍͔̼̯̞̾̊ͅẻ̳͙̻̗̤̬k̝̼͈̟͓͒̄ ̺͇̖̜̻̗̼̣̅̑͆ĩ͓͎̪̪ͭ̉̂t͚̮̻̣͚̊ͪ̅s̭̳͔̿̽ͦ͌̃ ̞̠̯̌ͥͭͪͦ̓ͭḿ̱͙͍̝̦̌̈͐ͣ̃́̔ͅy̰̫͔̩͎͗ͅs̝̣̞͌̈̄̆̽t̮̜͖̺͔̠ͦ̐e͎͂̀̃̉ͭ̔͐̑r̦̱͕̦̞̿̌͆̍ͨ͂i̼͎̝ͩͯ̋e͈̥̰̊ͣ͑̄ͩ̋ͅs̳͈͕̑̔ͅ.̙̫͕̑͒͋͂ͭ

Unfortunately, people trying to do good can do far greater evils than a purely selfish person ever could. Take the Stolen Generations. From an economic perspective, there was no purpose for stealing Aboriginal children out of the arms of their mothers and sticking them in boarding schools. It was costly. It was difficult. The only real purpose for it was the moral idea that Aboriginal culture was inferior and that the children deserved to be enlightened by the superior colonial culture. Thoreau once said that if he were told a man was coming to beat him up, gag him, and steal his belongings, he'd hunker down in his cabin and wait it out. But if he was told that this man was coming to do something "for his own good," he'd pack a few scant belongings and head for the hills. Good people will always be more dangerous than evil ones.

The Kobold King scowls. "I've been morally opposed to the non-eucledian fireworks industry ever since their parent company supported Shub-Niggurath in the Dreamgate scandal."

I heard that there were rival tribes who rode emus, and that the enemy tribes staged jousting tournaments in the middle of the Outback over it.

When he told me that the Native Americans had relinquished their right to the land because of all the violence they had perpetrated against each other, I had only one response to him. "Hundred. Years'. War."

The Kobold King appears from the fog, reaching a clawed hand to grasp the shadowy potato. He lifts it, examines it with a cold yellow eye, and speaks with an air of recognition. "A Voidus," he explains slowly, "is pages upon pages of Epic profiles. It is a spike in the back in a dark alley. It is a slowpoke with a horrific crab monster parasitically attached to its tail. It is, to put it simply... the void that is in all of us."

I don't know what Mestiv meant, but there was warfare in the Americas prior to the Europeans. A number of tribes were incredibly violent, killing any foreigners they detected in their territories and keeping their scalps as trophies. However, war was a fairly static thing to them; for the most part, the constant state of war between certain tribes did not bring accelerated technological innovation like it did in European societies. So yeah. No one claims that the Native American tribes were all universally saints, but their infighting does not excuse the colonial genocide of their people. (Like one guy at my church argues. )

A traveler emerges over the horizon, small and huddled in a patchy wool veil. A scaly snout peaks out from within, and reptilian eyes survey the scene. "What has become of this place," he whispers, more a statement than a question. He has seen derailment of this scale before. Roleplaying, it is called. He has seen its ravages in Oregon and the lands of the Social Guilds. His snout parts to reveal a toothy grin, and he casts aside the veil to reveal a scrawny reptilian form in all its glory. A gold crown sits upon his skull, studded with emeralds worked into the shape of little green arrows all around his head. He pulls a wicked dagger from his belt and sharpens it upon his fangs, eyes acquiring a sinister bend as he contemplates the whirling possibilities. The King of the Kobolds had arrived.

There are no nasty surprises about Leif Erikspug. There are only cute and snuggly surprises about him. Behind each level of adorableness there are only more adorable little secrets.

Darn it guys. You've been too awesome today.