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Death Before Dishonor!!
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Below are the 20 most recent journal entries recorded in Khurbin J. Brodhur, Karkaje Taskmaster's LiveJournal:

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Saturday, May 11th, 2013
2:10 am

It is the Restaurant of the Broken Spines. We are in the Lobby of Dog-Eared Corners. Our desserts are garnished with Foaming At the Mouth. Come sit at our table, and we will send you home drunk with an ulcer.

Spaghetti plates piled high, like compliments and critique. We throw them at the wall. Whatever sustenance you found in the leaves, take them with you. Whatever sticks in your teeth is of most importance. They burned my sculpture at ArtBash and told me, "If it came from your hands, it can come from your hands again." They were right, but I only realized that after I had my revenge with a Jaffa cake and a pair of handcuffs. Splatter something on your apron.

Tonight's special: A School of Fish...

Travelling in "No, Yuck, Shitty!" is like swimming amongst a school of fish. Each fish whips its fins in a just-so manner, ensuring that the fish around him will have no choice but to follow the current. It's not so bad sometimes, to just accept the washing of the brain, to swim with the tides. These tides in particular are really weird, love to get nude, and they believe in Funding of the Arts, so that's alright...

It's hard to have an ego swimming in the School of Many Fish. It's hard to grow deluded, because there are ten million other fish swimming on this island, and they are all ready at a moment's notice to Call You Out On Your Bullshit. And they have the brass knuckles to do it, too! Don't fuck with "No, Yuck!" After a while, you just say, "Hey, I'm only a Kobold who keeps fucking up, so screw it, let's try things your way."

The Town of Princes, on the other hand, is a great place to go mad. The kind of mad where you don't realize you're mad. There are no fish in the Town of Princes, no one to tell you "No, you shouldn't stick your hand in that burning oven." So, it's fun for a while, until you are late to work and then your hand is broken and the gangrene starts to set in. There's no one in the Town of Princes that will tell you, no, you're not right, it's not okay to have sex with teenagers because forget the legal reasons, they are teenagers! What the heck is the pillow talk like: "Hey babe, I'm thinking of switching the CDA account to a money market account." "Tee hee, my math homework is hard!"

Beware the minds and hearts of the young. They only worship the Allways Brand New. They are loyal only to their own ever-shifting identity, and even then they will betray themselves as well. They are silly putty, ready to press themselves to you and imprint you onto them, until things stretch out and suddenly it's time to wad it all up into a ball and put it back in the egg. Time to try a new comic.

The dogs get sick if they eat silly putty. Better to eat spaghetti, aged with a fine wine. Open the cork on the wine. Let it breathe for a long time. Swish it around so it coats the glass, and appreciate the stretching of time and noodles. If the wine is too strong for you, then just order a warm glass of milf.

It's not hard to go mad in the Town of Inbred Royalty. Better to get some wind in the sails. A ship is safe when sitting in the harbor, but that's not what ships were built for. You can catch better fish in an ocean than a mud puddle.

Dessert Course: Ten Million Barking Dogs

Pop the hat. Dig the rubble. Find the books. Along with Werner's Mighty Journey, ass comics, the Adventures of Mojo & Felix, beanoids, we killed the Buddha, and now we serve exclusively chilled monkey brains. There's nothing to remember, and we'll never be famous enough to sell anything on eBay, so tear the pages and break the spines if you have to. All that paper is nothing more than tinder to load the cannon. Pirates, we be, not scurrilous scholars scared of the Sea!

Pop the hat. New books spring from the tatters of the old. $10 apiece standing on a street corner near Central Park. We were going to go $13 but people are really superstitious about that shit. Funny hyoo-mans, always looking for gods in the weirdest places. Look at the rats instead: Are they not divine?

Pop the hat. Toss some change in. We told the world we are mean so that the morons would stay away, would not come visit, would not despoil the beauty. But the secret is, when you look beneath the rude, muddy surface of the water, you find the kindest, sweetest pearl. And it gives you money and your heart's desire.

Your heart's desire, but this time the stories are wrong... this time... this time...

This time there's no catch. This time, you get everything you wanted just because the All Powerful Oyster loves you.

Well, there's a few rats about. But if you're nice to them, they bring you things.


(murder a child)

Saturday, December 22nd, 2012
8:13 am
The History Of The Karkaje

It was an era of darkness and desolation, when the armies of evil ravaged the forest. Even the mightiest oaks fell to orcish axes, and demonfire reduced sacred grove to ashen wasteland. One by one, the elvish havens were destroyed, the woodland folk butchered, and the magic of nature perverted and forgotten as every forest became a horror of death and decay. Every forest, save one:

The forest of Wildwood, whose branches caressed the sky, whose sunlit leaves shone like a beacon of hope to all the forces of good.

By day and by night, the legions of the dark horde crashed against its edges with their hellhammers, snarling and screaming. By day and by night, they were turned away by the wise and mighty elves of Wildwood. Yet each battle saw elven numbers grow fewer and fewer. As the elven high council watched their kin return less and less each day, it became clear to them: The elves alone could not hold the forest.

But who could aid them in their time of need? The armies of man squabbled and bickered amongst themselves as their great cities were smashed into ruin and rubble. The great dwarven halls lay abandoned, empty of glory as their people retreated deeper and deeper underground.

The high priests and priestesses prayed to the Great Mother, that she might lend her wisdom. The Great Mother answered thus:







With hope renewed by the Great Mother’s words, the elves of Wildwood sought others who lived within its leaves. Indeed, they discovered many strange inhabitants. Nomads, outcasts, and wanderers of many cultures foreign to them had found their way to Wildwood.

The first of these was Khurbin Brodhur, a kobold who had left his tumultuous and violent homeland caverns for a life of serenity and enlightenment within the trees. The second was Briarbraid Ferecroft, a kendar who had come to the woods chasing adventure and revelry. These two had already become fast friends, and they brought out others of the forest: Mandovar O’Shadows, a chaos elf unknown even to his kin; Manic Andromeda, a marksman from distant lands; and Dr. Ziegfried, an eccentric tinker gnome seeking fame for his many bizarre inventions.

They were but five, unpredictable and wild, as different from each other as from the elves. Yet together they found kinship as brothers and sisters of the forest that had united them. To the elves, they proved their willingness to defend Wildwood, not with elven ways, but their own. Many times they would disappear in the thick of battle, only to return again behind the enemy lines, striking their foes down with ferocity unmatched.

They chose the name "Karkaje", a goblin word that meant “fearless insanity”, and dedicated themselves to the protection and preservation of not only the forest, but of all its many cultures. They fought to create a world where kinship would be found not through race, but through spirit. For as the Great Mother warned:


Friday, October 8th, 2010
11:28 am

Kill the conversation, get off the bus
There's a dumpster on fire near the both of us
With a black tar baby that no one trusts
Get a fiberglass blanket before he makes a fuss
And we all can sail onward
To the island that went bust

Kick your heels three times for home
Kick someone else's shins if you feel alone
Invite them in the space between the skin and bones
More intimate than a cellular phone
And we can all sail onward
To the island made of stone

I met an angel in the Bowery
With wings of silk and white
Now I wear a necklace made of feathers
So she can't fly back into the sky

The dead are coming back, so don't you fret
The moon hasn't had its coffee yet
A Eurydice on every corner, but it's Orpheus's debt
Pay off the singer with a bouncing check
And we can all sail onward
To the island of regret


(6 newborn kobolds | murder a child)

Thursday, June 3rd, 2010
11:40 am
V left Scarlet Carsons, Khurby will leave Little Pink Dog Collars

So glad to see you well
Overcome and completely silent now
With heaven's help
You cast your demons out.

And not to pull your halo down
Around your neck and tug you off your cloud
But I'm more than just a little curious
How you're planning to go about
Making your amends

to the dead

Recall the deeds as if
They're all someone else's
Atrocious stories
Now you stand reborn before us all
So glad to see you well

And not to pull your halo down
Around your neck and tug you to the ground
But I'm more than just a little curious
How you're planning to go about
Making your amends

To The Dead

Current Mood: tying a noose very slowly

(murder a child)

Wednesday, May 12th, 2010
2:02 am
Writers and Niggers (and Liberals and Women and Plumbers and Republicans and...)


Khurby met this nurse today who said she didn't like writers because writers are always delusional and lost in their own fiction.

Khurby said, "Well, don't you think that a good writer might be aware of that, and take steps to avoid letting that become a problem?"

The nurse said, "Well, I've dated a lot of writers before."

Khurby said, "Well, did you date actual writers, like the kind who developed their craft so well that other people actually paid hard-earned money just to read their stories? Or did you date a bunch of lazy pot smoking morons who, occasionally, wrote something down on their blog?"

The nurse struggled not to laugh, coughed, and then said, "Well, I don't like writers. They're all the same."

So Khurby said, "I understand. I don't like black people because they're all illiterate criminals."

She didn't get it. No, sir, she most emphatically did not.

But she's thinking about it. Right now, she's sitting at home, eating a bucket of Popeye's chicken and a slice of fried watermelon, watching BET with her unemployed crack-smoking baby-daddy, thinking about it.

Maybe someday she'll figure it out.


(murder a child)

Wednesday, April 28th, 2010
11:52 am

(2 newborn kobolds | murder a child)

Friday, March 20th, 2009
4:49 pm
This is why the Jews don't like Khurby
“Khurb’n” is a Hebrew origin word meaning “great destruction” and has traditionally been associated with the Destruction of the First and Second Temples in Jerusalem in 586 B.C.E and
70 C.E.

(4 newborn kobolds | murder a child)

Wednesday, February 25th, 2009
1:50 am
Yeeeehah, Chester's dead!


Current Mood: No LJ cut for j00!

(4 newborn kobolds | murder a child)

Tuesday, February 3rd, 2009
6:33 am
Please, Green Lady

Don't let me die.


(murder a child)

Tuesday, November 25th, 2008
6:21 pm

(murder a child)

Tuesday, April 3rd, 2007
1:48 am
Puesta del sol. Asaltado. Fantasmas.

Asaltado. Un numero inusualmente grande de los fantasmas que me hablan todo inmediatamente. No necesito ayuda con esto, pero usted es tan cortes pedir. Asaltado. Un numero inusualmente grande de los fantasmas que me hablan todo inmediatamente. No necesito ayuda con esto, pero usted es tan cortes pedir. Asaltado. Un numero inusualmente grande de los fantasmas que me hablan todo inmediatamente. No necesito ayuda con esto, pero usted es tan cortes pedir. Asaltado. Un numero inusualmente grande de los fantasmas que me hablan todo inmediatamente. No necesito ayuda con esto, pero usted es tan cortes pedir. Asaltado. Un numero inusualmente grande de los fantasmas que me hablan todo inmediatamente. No necesito ayuda con esto, pero usted es tan cortes pedir. Asaltado. Un numero inusualmente grande de los fantasmas que me hablan todo inmediatamente. No necesito ayuda con esto, pero usted es tan cortes pedir. Asaltado. Un numero inusualmente grande de los fantasmas que me hablan todo inmediatamente. No necesito ayuda con esto, pero usted es tan cortes pedir.


(1 newborn kobold | murder a child)

Monday, April 2nd, 2007
2:23 pm

(murder a child)

Wednesday, March 28th, 2007
1:38 am

Yr duwiau goddef y rhy yma tresio dafad Sais halogi bedd eich.


(1 newborn kobold | murder a child)

Thursday, March 15th, 2007
6:44 am
People are always giving me the same advice...

"Get over yourself. Quit talking shit about people you don't know."

Look, I'm a kobold in a world of humans. I get -4 to my strength. As the Tao te Ching says, "He who speaks does not know the way to subdue his opponent with a broadsword." It also says that, "He who truly knows one thing knows everything," and Khurby truly knows that the capital of Alaska is Juneau (pronounced j00-know).

"The world doesn't revolve around your problems."

I'm a nocturnal creature. The sun is my only problem.

"Get some help with your problems. The professional kind."

I'm not going to pay some dude to blow up the sun. Why do you think I avoid taxes?

"No one gives a shit, stop making a big deal about it."

Oh yeah? Well, then, why do I have exactly 2.7 hits per month to my blog, eh? I'm like theferrett, only it doesn't cost $500 to get me de-scented.

"Your stupid!"

No, you're stupid!

"Your secrets aren't really secrets."

Darn it! You mean posting intimate details of my personal life on LiveJournal has failed to hide my deepest secrets?

Wait, what are my deepest secrets anyway?


Alright, that's it. I'm never posting anything about my favorite flavor of ice cream, ever.

Besides, I don't like secrets much. As my favorite orc is fond of saying, Beware he who withholds information, for in his heart he dreams himself your master.

"You're such a drama queen."

For some reason, I only get this one from theater majors. Funny that they can recognize my royalty, but not my gender.

"Your real friends love you and don't listen to the shit."

Why are all amateur psychologists obsessed with fecal matter? They say the best way to make a friend is to be a friend, so get your ear out of the toilet and start loving!

"You obsess over the past too much."

The past is an invaluable learning tool. Considering I live with a group of people who are willing and somewhat able to take care of each other, I think obsessing over the past has paid off.

"Oh, what a tangled web you weave."

The word "tantra" is Sanskrit for "the weaving of a web".

"This post may not be addressed to you."

One thing Khurby I has learned about hyoo-mans in my 36 years of having a LiveJournal is that instead of confronting their problems directly and attempting to solve them, they prefer to post vague, angry, or anonymous things on the internet. (And don't call me a hypocrite. Talking directly to a big ball of bright, flaming rock is much harder than it looks in all of those old 60's movies.)

Well, this is probably because of fear, and according to Frank Herbert, fear is the mindkiller. So logically, angry blogs are killing people's brains.

Instead, you should call your enemies on the phone and offer them dinner and oral pleasure (your treat and you have to do all the driving. It's very wise to do all sorts of nice stuff to your enemies. Read the Koran if you don't believe me.)

Then, when they least expect it, you can surprise them by saying, "HAHAHAHA!! I'VE TAKEN YOU TO TACO BELL AND I'M NOT VERY GOOD AT ANALINGUS!!!!!"

See, when you're nice to people, they tend to let their guard down, paving your way to the revenge you've always dreamed of.

(My dream is to sleep uninterrupted for 24 hours straight.)

So in conclusion, FUCK YOU FOR DOING THINGS THAT I DO NOT AGREE WITH AND CHOOSE NOT TO UNDERSTAND, STUPID COSMIC BODY WHO I AM TOO FRIGHTENED TO NAME! Stop giving me advice! Look at my icon and cry at my clever ability to express myself with a 100 pixels-squared .jpg!

Oh, and of course there is this one:

"You should take your own advice."

I totally do. But, since the post office wouldn't let me mail roses to outer space, I hacked into the NASA database and sent some astronauts on "an uncharted mission".

(Don't worry. All of the astronauts were Liberal Democrats skilled in the use of a broadsword. They will quietly accept their deaths.)


(2 newborn kobolds | murder a child)

Sunday, March 11th, 2007
10:49 pm
One thing I like about my life...

...is that God actually answers all of my prayers.

It seems that Anna Nicole Smith is dead.

It happened months ago, and I just found out about this today. That makes me happy.

I've tried hermitage, isolating myself from large crowds of people, media, internet, etc. On christmas, I prayed to God, and then got social again.

I've watched lots of TV, surfed all over the Googleplex and spoken to lots of random people. Yet somehow, the "media frenzy" completely missed me! In retrospect, I haven't been assaulted by a stupid conversation since then. I haven't had to waste a lot of power extracting myself from idiot trivia told by useless friends.

Oh, media! Oh, internet! I forgive you all of your sins. For you have brought me President Bartlet, free episodes of the Sarah Silverman program, racoons, Obama, the Order of the Stick, Midna and Tempe, a good recipe for absinthe, and (from OkCupid, of all places) a kind, motivated woman who believes in justice and prudence.

Lest you be confused, I did not pray for Anna to die, nor does her death cause me any sort of joy.

I just can't get over the elation of that lonely, smoky Christmas night when a poor, hassled kobold said,

Dear God,

Quit bothering me with stupid shit.

Yrs. truley,

Khurbin J. Brodhur

...and God listened.

I've gotten a lot accomplished since Christmas.


Current Mood: got that old-time religion

(murder a child)

Monday, February 26th, 2007
3:38 pm

Gratias tibi ago

Haec credam a deo pio?
A deo justo?
A deo scito?

Cruciatus in crucem
Tuus in terra servus
Nuntius fui
Officium perfeci

Cruciatus in crucem
Eas in crucem


(1 newborn kobold | murder a child)

Friday, February 16th, 2007
1:22 am
This is wrong on so many levels...

[EDIT] It seems that David Cross thinks so too!

(murder a child)

Friday, February 2nd, 2007
4:48 pm

About once every couple of weeks or so, one of my friends comes up to me and says, "Khurby, there's this web-comic you've GOT to read. It's awesome!"

I hate web-comics.

Click here for rant.Collapse )

Then I discovered "Goblins".

Photobucket - Video and Image Hosting

Naturally, the subject matter is straight up my alley, and to be fair, the humor is very D&D heavy, particularly towards the early strips. But that isn't why I like it.

First off, Tarol Hunt can draw. His attention to line quality, body expression, and architecture puts most professional comic artists to shame. Everything happens in three-dimensions, and the panel focus borrows liberally from both eastern (one strip follows the movement of a single spear while a battle rages below) and western (splash pages are few, but well used) sequential art. Early on, the series jumps from black and white to color, but by then each character has already developed their own unique visual appearance.

Then there is the story.

As mentioned above, many of the early jokes require some serious geekery, but even so, they are fresh and funny (i.e. the appearance of a negative number above any mortally wounded character, or the mighty warrior "Minmax"). As the comic strip develops, the characters flesh themselves out well enough to carry gags on their own (like the delusional Fumbles, aka "Senor Vorpal Kickass-O", or the unfortunately-named Dies Horribly, who carries a nice comedic tension throughout the entire comic).

Even the Star Wars reference (there is only one, thankfully) is well-timed. I promise you won't see it coming, and you'll laugh when it does.

Hunt manages to shift seamlessly between light-hearted storylines into deeper, more serious fare which lets his characters expand even further as the series explores the nature of racial violence. The series slowly builds to an epic battle scene in the goblins' warcamp, and when the battle arrives, it does not disappoint.

Hunt can pace a battle scene better than anyone in comics, professional or otherwise. The battle is long, bloody, and grueling. Within it, each character (goblin or otherwise) is given their own moment to reveal their more heroic (or villainous) qualities.

The series is still on-going, and the subplots weave in and out while still servicing the main story. Many of them have yet to resolve, as Hunt's best quality as a story-teller is knowing just how long to let a mystery linger before releasing the climax.

I'll be reading this one until the end.



(murder a child)

9:41 am
One More Time...

"Your" = possessive

"You're" = contraction, short for "you are".

"Its" = possessive

"It's" = contraction, short for "it is".

Can you believe they taught me that in grade school? Apparently, I'm some sort of genius.


(3 newborn kobolds | murder a child)

Sunday, January 21st, 2007
5:19 pm
Dark Days

When I was born I shamed the Dawn and saw the angels cry
I raised my arms and made the stars tremble in the sky
When I sang the choirs were humbled
When I danced the mountains crumbled
I chased the waves right back into the sea

I feasted on the fatted calf
I drank whole cities dry
I made the devil dance for me and I spat into his eye
I said, "So long Jack, we hardly knew ya! Here's to Hell and Hallelujah!
Take this rock and shake it 'til it bleeds.
These are dark days indeed."

We don't know who put this cup of life into our hands
When we go our bones will bake upon the burning sands
We walk but once among the living
So no regrets and no forgiving
It's hard to dance when you're down upon your knees
These are dark days indeed.


(2 newborn kobolds | murder a child)

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