Greg wrote a post yesterday that included some stuff from our games this past weekend, and after reading it I’ve realized that I need to set the record straight on a few things. Well, one thing really. That thing is:
Why T’au Need To Be Nerfed Into The Fucking Ground And The Earth They Lie In Must Be Salted To Prevent Their Untimely Resurrection.
It’s not because T’au are too good – I’m not even saying they’re not, as I wouldn’t know, despite having gotten absolutely bodied in every game I played against them this weekend. The intricacies of high-level 40k play are far beyond the level of induction I have yet achieved into the gnostic mystery cult that is Goonhammer Dot Com. T’au might well be completely OP, but if I’m honest, if I ever ran up against someone who could actually make use of that, I’d lose anyway, because I’m bad at the game.
No, the reason T’au need to be re-tuned so aggressively that even the mere thought of running them in a tournament will cause the poor bastard who had it to die from involuntarily laughing so hard they can’t breathe is because of what they’ve done to my friend Greg, our resident computer janitor.
I want to be clear here that I’m not saying this because I want Greg to lose. At NOVA ’19, when he finally won a game, I was so excited that I dropped what I was doing – literally, I had to repair my AT Warlord Titan – and whooped out loud in celebration. It was an incredible moment, and I honestly couldn’t have been happier for the guy.
The problem is that Rob wasn’t lying in his NOVA wrap-up about the psychic toll it took on Greg – at his core, the man is just not equipped to deal with the stress of being A Winner. He walks around in a daze, not sure whether to celebrate or to just silently pack up his mans, refusing to make eye contact for fear of seeing his old self reflected in the eyes of his latest victim.
If you want to know exactly how ill-suited his neural pathways are to processing the sweet taste of victory, just look at the first game I played against his T’au. For all his bluster about his forthcoming reign of terror, let me just tell you this: if you believed him when he said there would be “no apologizing” when he finally Got Good, I have a gorgeous-looking tower on a prime plot of land in Midtown Manhattan to sell you.
No, the reality of the much-vaunted Wrath of Greg is that the only terror involved is the pure existential dread of a man who can feel His Brand slipping out from between his fingers. It’s less of a reign of terror and more whatever the Carter Administration was, but with less peanuts. Either that, or the plastic battlesuit kits will spontaneously explode if you don’t say “Oh god, I’m so sorry man” within a quarter of a second of rolling a 6 on anything but a morale check.
Greg, I say this with all the love I have left in my heart for you: If you apologize to me one more goddamn time for killing one of my models, I am going to rage build an entire goddamn Custodes force in a week, then fly it to fucking Baltimore so I can chase you down at an RTT and use The Emperor’s Auspices on whatever gaudy genetically-modified idiot your dipshit Commander makes the mistake of shooting at for the rest of his natural life.
As for whoever wrote this Codex, I will never forgive you for what you’ve done to this poor man. Shame on you.
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