After Years of Studying Goblins, I Can Say with Confidence: I Hate Them 🤬

 

After Years of Studying Goblins, I Can Say with Confidence: I Hate Them

I’ve spent years observing goblins in their natural habitat—burrows, ruined taverns, and under your bed. Not out of admiration. Not out of curiosity. Out of obligation. Some unfortunate souls get elves. Others get dragons. I got goblins.

Let me be clear: goblins are not misunderstood. They are not whimsical. They are not “just quirky.” They are infestations with opinions, armed with bad breath and worse ideas.

My first field mission? They set my boots on fire while I was still wearing them. Thought it was hilarious. “Initiation,” one of them grunted, just before projectile vomiting into my journal. Every day since has followed the same pattern: chaos, shrieking, theft, and a complete disregard for physics or personal space.

They multiply when you’re not looking. They chew on magical artifacts just to see what happens. They believe that if they can trick you into saying “thank you,” they’re legally allowed to ride you like a steed. This is not a metaphor. I have lower back issues now.

Over the years, I’ve tried diplomacy. I’ve tried traps. I’ve even tried bribery—with shiny things, snacks, and the souls of lesser rodents. It doesn’t work. Nothing works. Goblins don’t want peace. They want noise. They want war with the furniture. They want to slap a cursed sticker on your forehead and call it “marriage.”

So no, I don’t love them. I study them because someone has to. Because if we don’t understand them, they’ll overthrow the ecosystem. Not with power—but with persistence, grime, and a kind of idiot luck that borders on divine.

If you see one—don’t make eye contact. Don’t feed it. Don’t ask its name.
Just walk away.

Unless it’s already clinging to your leg. In that case…
Good luck. You’re one of us now.