Date: March 25th, 1700 S.A.
My Mood Is: fuck! shit!! damn!!!
Fuck! Shit!! Damn!!! Every time things start to go my way, it all goes to shit! And – of course – on my birthday, too!
I had Middle-earth all tied up — all tied up in a little red ribbon of flame, disease and death — when who shows up? The Númenóreans! Like, hundreds of thousands of the shiny-armored buggers in thousands of shiny ships, pouring over the horizon like shiny lemmings.
And the motherfuckers know how to fight! In just two weeks they’ve pushed my main force out of Lindon and all the way back to mid-Eriador, by the banks of the Baranduin. Now they’re slaughtering my Orcs and Wargs and Trolls and Evil Men, and the river is running red and blue with thick, chunky blood. How can people with such atrocious taste in headgear be such effective warriors?
Assholes! Go back to Westernesse where you belong! Mind your own business!
I’ve tried negotiating with this Ciryatur the Ship-Lord, the admiral sent by the Númenórean emperor to aid his buddy Gil-Galad. And by “negotiating,” I mean “tricking into going home.” But no go. And yet… and yet there’s something to these Númenóreans. Something… corruptible. I wonder if some of these Númenórean princes might like their own domains in Middle-earth, with their own magic rings…
Bwa ha ha. Bwa ha ha ha ha. BWA HA HA HA HA HA!
Oh crap! I just lost two deathyderms and six Fell Beasts. This battle sucks — IT SUCKS!!!
You know what I miss? From the First Age? Werewolves! My boyz like Draugluin, and that other fella, what was his name… Carcharoth! Yeah, whatever happened to those guys? They wouldn’t stand still and let a bunch of stupid Sea Kings rip them to shreds in a meadow.
Oh, man. There go the last of my Watchers in the Water. I’m gonna have to retreat again.
Shit! Fuck!! Damn!!!