Cantankerous Old Grognard's page

It was 70 here, once.

Can't say I remember it, I bet it was magical.

Oh, I remember that day. It was a Tuesday in August, of course Augustus Caesar having not yet taken control of the Roman Empire and it having been the country now called America, we called it Sitting Bull day, because I don't know that many Native American leaders, and so I'll have to settle for an anachronism in order for this story to work. We had just taken the land back from the Dire Wolves, who had in the previous year hunted down all of our Mastodons, and of course had speed on their side in addition to strength. I had gathered all the dog hunters, and I'm gonna be honest with you if you're still following me at this point in the story, I really can't tell you where I'm going with this joke, but I'm gonna try and press on because it's par for the course with this alias to make a long, rambling story that doesn't really go anywhere, in a sort of a Grampa Simpsons spoof, which, if I recall correctly, is occasionally sprinkled with jokes from Professor Farnsworth of Futurama and Stan's grandfather in South Park. I got the idea originally when I used to say, without an alias of course, because this was before I started using aliases for jokes a long time ago, you see, and I would say things like "Well back in my day, elf was a class, and we liked it!" I did this to ridicule old grognards for their pathetic reminiscence of editions that without the rose colored glasses of nostalgia aren't as good as they think they are. Well, one day someone made a reply about goblin kids skateboarding on my lawn, and I went with a full blown story reply in this fashion, and later, at some point in which I forget, because my memory is hazy, and I don't actually remember most of the things I'm saying in this story, I copied and pasted that story under this alias. It was popular at the time, and this was nice, because I had not yet made the name I apparently have of late, and it encouraged me to continue with these stories. And so I continued. And now, here I am, and I'm pretty sure this isn't funny, and hasn't been for a while, but you see, true old grognards aren't actually trying to be funny...or even fun, frankly, because they're too concerned with being hipster originals talking about how deadly the old days were and apparently how they sadomaschistically enjoyed that. Now, sadomasochism is an interesting subject, upon which I could talk for a while, if I had the inclination....which I do....but I won't for the sake of your sanity, and the thought of you picturing a man who looks like this alias portrays in a leather gimp suit with a ball gag in his mouth telling stories about how back in his day the leather was tighter, and the whips cracked louder, and how pegging just isn't what it used to be.

...and I think I've ruined this alias for everyone, myself included.

All of these aliases remind me of the time I was playing a game as an unlicensed independent detective, or as we called them back then, a dirty private dick...which always has my granddaughter giggling for some reason, which I never understood because she's never shown the slightest inclination towards law enforcement, aside from the handcuffs she keeps in her house...the girl swears they're for safety purposes, which I guess makes sense, because w everything in that box I found in her closet when I visited her and her roommate in college last week seemed like it was for self defense...good strong leather armor, a good masterwork whip, what I can only assume was some kind of taser, although I couldn't get the thing to work properly. Anyway, I was playing a dirty private dick, and I had these aliases, you see, whereupon I said, hey, I'm not Fast Groomer McCain, as you're thinking, which was my character's first nickname, but rather I am Marco "The Tubs" O'Houlihan, and I am not, in fact, wanted in seven states. I was, actually, wanted in eight, due to there being a natural one on the die, which is a phrase that goes as far back as to when we wore onions in our belt...

DrDeth suggested playing Chainmail in a fantasy setting with only a single character each to Gygax and Arneson while they were all out hunting brontosaurus.

I remember that. Those dang kids were all over my yard. I told them we only had mastadons, what with the time differential between humanity and the nearest true dinosaur era and all, and they said no, we're hunting behemoths and leviathans, which is what we called dinosaurs at the time. Now around this time, my neighbor, Job, had broken out into this rash, and he got into scraping it with a broken pot he borrowed from me, because that Job was always borrowing my pots and tools, and I said, let me have my pot back, and he said, I can't, I'm cursed by God, and are those kids wearing chainmail in your yard? That's not even era appropriate! We're not even true bronze age yet, by all best historical accounts. And I said, well, that's just Dave Arneson and Gary Gygax...young Intern Deth (he has not yet finished his residency, you see) told them there's monsters in this region! Well, Job and I had a good laugh, and then he cried about his kids dying, and I stoned Deth, on account of medicine being witchcraft, and it was a good day.

*whacks COG with rollator*

*takes out orthopedic gauntlet and smacks ROG across the face*

Hot diggity, a duel! I can't remember when I last felt this young!

...

...

..I really can't.

Wait, what were we fighting about again? Fighting? You boys fighting again? Don't make me take off my belt!

Pfeh. You youngsters have no appreciation for REAL roleplaying. When I started playing with GG and DA, it was hard to have your fighting man survive, lemme tellya. And every room contained a damn good reason to roll initiative. Plus we didn't have the stats in the wrong order. And we died, and made new characters, and we fought 5-50 nixies, and we liked it!

... What was the question again?

Copying my jokes, that's a paddlin'.

New things are wrong, change is bad, and everything worth anything was already invented by 1967. This computer stuff is a fad, and it will fade away just like that fancy disco. Real music is a love song about your sweetie, not some boogie about shaking jive, like you kids sing today with your permed hair and your bellbottoms. Well I'll leave it behind and play my original game, thank you very much. They say that it's madness to talk to yourself sometimes, but is it? Am I mad because I play by myself because I can't find anyone who will play basic First Edition rules using original dice hand-carved by Olmec Indians during the third century AD, which of course you know is the only true way to play the game? Yes, madness runs in the Grognard blood. Some even called me mad. And whyyy? Because I dared to dream of creating my own race of atomic monsters! Atomic Supermen, with octogonal shaped bodies that suck blood out of... [storms out of room while blabbering incomprehensibly]...damn goblin kids, always skateboarding on my lawn...

Alright, ya got me. You see, the story of the good ol' days of RPGs started in the Old Edition. I forget which one exactly. My DM (they were called DMs back then, on account of shut up, that's why), well my DM would drone on and on about Second Edition. He thought it was the greatest thing since sliced bread. Sliced bread having been invented the previous winter. Which edition did we decide to play as a result?

Well, you're really asking two questions there. The first one takes me back to 1934. Admiral Byrd had just reached the pole, only hours ahead of the Three Stooges and... nods off, snores for a while, wakes up in a confused panicWHAT? Who said that? Are the Chelish invading again? Oh, right. Well, I guess he won the argument, but I walked away with the turnips. The following morning, I resigned my commission in the Coast Guard of Andoran. The next thing I heard, there was civil war in Brevoy and that's everything that happened in my life right up to the time I got this message post.

You kids today, you don't appreciate how we had it. And when I was a kid, we went up-level, both ways, through the snow just to look at a dungeon! And elf was a class, and we liked it that way!

You see, to get the picture, you had to describe your character in all his attire, and me, well I wore an onion in my belt, because it was the style at the time. Back in those days, silver pieces had bees on them. "Gimme 10 bees for a gp", we'd say, of course to catch the ferry to Port Peril, we would, which back in those days was called Port Not-Too-Dangerous-Yet, which none of us understood at the time, because we all wondered when it would be dangerous. Of course, that was before Calistira adopted the wasp as her symbol, and when she did, boy were we confused, because you see, you'd only get yourself two stings-of-the-wasp for a gp, so the conversion rate was a little off, and of course we'd say it's five bees a sting, but only if your stinger is strong, we would.

Now you see, this was before them dirty orcs started inbreeding with us good humans. Don't get me wrong, I know there's a few good orcs out there, got a daughter married to an orc, but that's the exception, not the rule, and I'm still waiting till he hurts her...and kobolds, well, I just don't trust them shifty folk, no no, no matter what my grandson says. "Granpa, you're being a speciesist! These days some kobolds are neutral, or even good! You can't just slaughter them out of hand, there's moral relevatism and ambiguity to deal with."

Well, I tell you I had nine of them little nuggets jump me and by the time I was done with them I had such a workout I was thin as an elf. Not the race, mind you, but the class. Because...well, you see, back in our days, an elf was a class, and we liked it that way! You see, I wore an onion in my belt, because...

You kids today, you don't appreciate how we had it. And when I was a kid, we went up-level, both ways, through the snow just to look at a dungeon! And elf was a class, and we liked it that way!

You see, to get the picture, you had to describe your character in all his attire, and me, well I wore an onion in my belt, because it was the style at the time. Back in those days, silver pieces had bees on them. "Gimme 10 bees for a gp", we'd say, of course to catch the ferry to Port Peril, we would, which back in those days was called Port Not-Too-Dangerous-Yet, which none of us understood at the time, because we all wondered when it would be dangerous. Of course, that was before Calistira adopted the wasp as her symbol, and when she did, boy were we confused, because you see, you'd only get yourself two stings-of-the-wasp for a gp, so the conversion rate was a little off, and of course we'd say it's five bees a sting, but only if your stinger is strong, we would.

Now you see, this was before them dirty orcs started inbreeding with us good humans. Don't get me wrong, I know there's a few good orcs out there, got a daughter married to an orc, but that's the exception, not the rule, and I'm still waiting till he hurts her...and kobolds, well, I just don't trust them shifty folk, no no, no matter what my grandson says. "Granpa, you're being a speciesist! These days some kobolds are neutral, or even good! You can't just slaughter them out of hand, there's moral relevatism and ambiguity to deal with."

Well, I tell you I had nine of them little nuggets jump me and by the time I was done with them I had such a workout I was thin as an elf. Not the race, mind you, but the class. Because...well, you see, back in our days, an elf was a class, and we liked it that way! You see, I wore an onion in my belt, because...