I’m sick and tired of my Warcraft III skillz getting ground into the dirt by random Internet strangers. Playing a game is like bending over for the prison soap. But not in 2003!

I resolve that my Undead shall reign triumphant!

I resolve that my Ghouls will pour forth like lube at a porno shoot, crunching your sorry little trees underfoot like peanut shells on the floor of a Texas barbecue.

I resolve that my Meat Wagons will usher forth a new era of horror, a flesh-flaying feast of maggots whipping through the air like hail in a trailer park.

I resolve that those few who survive the charge of my Death Knight will shrivel like raisins in the sun under the crushing follow-up blow from my Abominations, their mangled corpses driven into the ground like tent pegs, depriving the soil of fertility for generations to come.

I resolve that my Dread Lord will kick your stupid tree’s ass. If your tree does not in fact possess an ass -- and I suspect as much -- he will first create one. Then he will lodge a boot in it. I resolve to LAUGH, aloud, no matter how often this spectacle is repeated.

I also resolved to quit smoking. This probably explains all my pent-up rage.

I should also stop pushing children off of bicycles, but A MAN CAN’T CHANGE OVERNIGHT.