(Also Titled: The Ongoing Diary of Thppgrg, Goblin Minion)

As ever, readers who are new to the diary, please scroll down a bit to where you see the Thppgrg tag. Click on it. Yeah, that’s right. Otherwise, if you missed part eleven, you can just click here. (Art by Chris McFann.)

DAY THIRTY-EIGHT

Guh.

More toilet paper strung up in the haunted forest; additionally, significantly more flaming poo bags on the front steps of the dungeon today. These newest bags were “cleverly” arranged in the shape of a particularly stubby hand making a very impolite gesture.

Also, there is a QUITE unflattering drawing of me with Xs through my eyes and an axe buried in my skull drawn on the front door. At first I took this to be a pretty darn good caricature of Steve Buschemi with sexier, pointier ears, but a helpful note next to it, with an arrow, informed me that no, this was—technically—a picture of, quote, “You, ya gobo bugger! Imma git ye!”

(Also Titled: The Ongoing Diary of Thppgrg, Goblin Minion)

As ever, readers who are new to the diary, please scroll down a bit to where you see the Thppgrg tag. Click on it. Yeah, that’s right. Otherwise, if you missed part ten, you can just click here. (Art by Chris McFann.)

DAY THIRTY-SEVEN

Tuesdays. Worst day since Mondays.

So it seems that the previously mentioned theoretical prank-war has been officially confirmed. There was a chance, after all—however slight—that the flaming bag of poo on the doorstep to Level 1 yesterday was completely random, but as of this morning part of the haunted forest outside the dungeon has been heavily TP’ed, and there was another flaming bag of poo—this one significantly larger and stinkier (potentially from a yak?)—along with what appears to be owlbear-egg yolk on the door.

(Also Titled: The Ongoing Diary of Thppgrg, Goblin Minion)

As ever, readers who are new to the diary, please scroll down a bit to where you see the Thppgrg tag. Click on it. Yeah, that’s right. Otherwise, if you missed part nine, you can just click here. (Art by Chris McFann.)

DAY THIRTY-SIX

Monday. Oh, wow. Just . . .

Where to even start?

First and foremost, the new Assistant Manager is awful. AWFUL. Awfully awfulishly awfillingly SUPER-awful. Duper. Awful. Anyway, apparently I’m supposed to “work” while at work now. And to back-prioritize our synergy-disambiguations and, still moving forward, both game-changerize AND value-add the execution functionality of not only action items, but also item-actions and what might or might not have been “actuated itemizers,” which I guess are either a thing now, or I had stopped paying attention and drifted off a little bit mentally and might have made it up completely. And to wear a tie.

Not certain where to obtain one.

(Also Titled: The Ongoing Diary of Thppgrg, Goblin Minion)

As ever, readers who are new to the diary, please scroll down a bit to where you see the Thppgrg tag. Click on it. Yeah, that’s right. Otherwise, if you missed part eight, you can just click here. (Art by Chris McFann.)

DAY THIRTY-FIVE

Pretty darn good day today. Apparently, my new frost-elf baby has warmed the spectral heart of my horrible, racist, strategically important-fountain-room-haunting apparition.

Also, he felt just super, SUPER guilty about waking the kid up when he phased through my wall screaming hideously about filthy gobos in the middle of the night with his rotten, partially severed and now-eyeless head flopping around and his blood-stained dungeon-themed adventure pajamas all fluttering in the noiseless wind of the void.

(Also Titled: The Ongoing Diary of Thppgrg, Goblin Minion)

As ever, readers who are new to the diary, please scroll down a bit to where you see the Thppgrg tag. Click on it. Yeah, that’s right. Otherwise, if you missed part seven, you can just click here. (Art by Chris McFann.)

DAY THIRTY-FOUR

Odd day, today.

Our landlord stopped by this morning, and apparently Jimbo’s lease is technically commercial/industrial, rather than residential; this means that he cannot keep his adopted infant frost-elven daughter, Princess Leafirellha, in his section of Level One any longer. Jimbo has asked, somewhat sheepishly, if she can maybe move in with me in the residentially approved and strategically important Fountain Room, at least temporarily; my assistant manager—Stonnehyldd the Super-Smart Stone Golem—has intimated to me that it would look pretty good to the boss-man at my next performance review if I at least took over some babysitting duties.