Postcards from Gameville

I wrote this post originally in February of 2006 on my 1UP account as part of some WoW-related contest. I’m going around deleting accounts on services I no longer use, but I wanted to save this somewhere, because at least on the human priest side of things, it’s a true story:

If I were to write up a script for one of the Switch parody shorts, and I were more cantankerous and maladjusted, it might be something like this. You’re going to have to imagine the scene blocking yourself, though.

All the horror stories you hear about the priest getting blamed for every party wipe out? True, true.

It doesn’t matter if your mage thinks they’re the reincarnation of an atom bomb and think AoE’ing everything, every time, is the proper course of action. It doesn’t matter if your party’s only tank is a Voidwalker. Your druid thinks they can turn into a locomotive and run the enemy down? Yeah, okay. And so what if your rogue is fighting with a trout in one hand and a hamster in the other? If the party wipes? You’re the priest, and it’s your fault.

For example: I was invited to be healer for a party heading to Uldaman. From the get go, it was, “Stand there. Do this. Don’t do that.” Never mind that I’m 30 years old, capable of conversing in English and making my own decisions, and have other things I could be doing with my time. I’m not some piece of furniture that dispenses magical warm fuzzies that make you feel better, and I’m not the babysitter for the Reckless ‘Tween Club.

So we get up to Grimlok and we’ve cleared the antechamber just before. We’re trying to rest up and someone, somehow, pulls Grimlok and his goons down on us. That’s fine, mistakes happen. But I’m not even at half mana when Ms. Mage over there–whom I doubt is a real woman because no woman would name her female toon “Uglee”–she decides she’s Mt. Saint Helen and starts dropping Arcane Explosions like they’re going out of style. And she’s all “Heal me, heal me” and despite my better judgment, I am… but no one can tell because everything’s already targetting her and for all we know, she bought her armor at T.J. Maxx.

And when she dies? Guess who’s next?

After I quit the party, what does the rogue /tell me? Among other things I’m sure his mother wouldn’t approve of, he sends me:

“U R TEH FUCKEN WORTS PREIST EVAR.”

Look, I’m not saying I’m perfect, but at the same time, if you’re gonna chastise me, you’re gonna have to do it above a 3rd-grade reading level. Who taught you to spell, kid? Alpha Bits? Criminy. The only thing I’m guilty of is trying to entertain you lot like some sort of creepy children’s show host.

Popular opinion holds that the average age on the Horde side is ten years older than the Alliance, but let’s face it: anyone would have to be more mature than these knuckle-dragging zygotes with whom I keep ending up in parties.

(Eilers disappears in the puff of smoke seen when a druid changes form, and is replaced by a Tauren druid)

Nowadays I can heal, but I can do tons of other things as well. I can turn into a bear with horns. I can turn into a sea lion with horns. I can turn into some crazy owlbear-with-antlers thing. It’s killer.

There’s been some adjustments, of course. Since I’m taller, my center of balance isn’t where I expect it to be, and I find myself ducking to enter doorways when I don’t have to. I don’t hunger for White Castle as much as I used to. And there’s still the occasional jackass who thinks it’s funny to make a “moo” comment or the like. But that’s okay. I just turn into a lion with horns, stealth up on their tired asses, and gore them.

Then I heal them. And /moo.

My name is Eilers, and I’m a switcher.