Okay, kids, time once again for everyone to gather round while I see what kinds of forays into ridiculousness await in this round of mail. Here we go…

Dear Warchief,

I’m just curious, is there a particular reason you tend to go shirtless? Not that I’m complaining. That is, obviously it’s your choice how you want to armor yourself, sir. But it doesn’t seem like it would provide much protection for you in battle.

Purely concerned about the safety of our leader,

–Tandeleina, Silvermoon City.

So, I think we can safely file this one under #TheLadiesLoveGarrosh, right?

I mean the letter. Not my answer. Necessarily.

But, let’s put it this way. I don’t think we’ve ever met in person, Tandeleina, but all your letters have come from Silvermoon. So, seeing as you’re most likely a blood elf, let me ask YOU a question: why is it that when it’s time for YOUR people to pick out some armor to wear, more often than not it’s some kind of plate bikini? Or mail. Wouldn’t want to discriminate against the hunters. Or rogues, because when you add leather to the mix, hoo boy.

I was actually going to give a few examples here to illustrate my point, but I ended up deciding against it, because (1) you should be so lucky, (2) we’ve ALL ALREADY SEEN THEM ALL, like every time we freaking GO OUTSIDE in a major city, and (3) I already get enough creepy search terms in my Google traffic, and why court more attention from weirdos?

Still, the fact remains, it seems like every other the blood elf out there feels the need to run around in gear that could double as swimwear. Even when she’s a tank. Take a second and think about that one, by the way. Her WHOLE JOB is to be WELL-PROTECTED. She TAKES and MITIGATES damage FOR A LIVING. And what outfit did she pick out for this endeavor? The ol’ plate-kini.

See, this all comes down to a strange principle of physics that most people don’t know about. It’s called the Focus Distortion Field. Here’s the basic equation:

Where your opponent’s chance of hitting you gets reduced by an amount that can be calculated using your total body surface area, S_t, the surface area of skin coverage, S_c, and that whole mess of stuff in parentheses, which represents your personal hotness level as determined by body observational optimality times exhibitional enticement, or, if you want to can treat the surface area fraction as your Nudity Index, you can just remember the whole damn hit penalty calculation as Nudity times BOOTEE squared.

Bottom line: the hotter you are and the more you’re showing it off — you know, without leaving yourself TOTALLY vulnerable to a really really bad glancing hit — the harder it is for anyone to concentrate enough to actually hit you. So, see, it’s actually just all about the math.

So there. That’s your technical answer to why I don’t wear a shirt.

The REAL answer, though?

With abs like this, why WOULD I?

<waggle>

Dear Sir?

Why haven’t you replaced your well worn, torn, and stitched back together again pants? I would think there would be plenty of tailors that would be more than honored to stitch you a new pair of pants.

–Ruekie, Shaman-in-training

Nice to hear from you, Rook. I mean, it’s only been like twenty minutes since I saw you IN PERSON, but you know what? I’ve given up trying to figure out this thing with you writing me letters all the time.

(By the way, this whole letter-writing thing with Ruekie is even weirder and more endemic than you guys get to see. I pick and choose which of these letters of hers I use in my mailbags. She sends me like three a day. Half the time she’s asking stuff that it doesn’t even make sense to be shy about, like what combat drills we’re going to do today, or what’s for lunch at the mess hall. Your guess is as good as mine.)

So anyway.

Item number one:

I WILL THANK YOU TO STOP STARING AT MY PANTS, ROOK. I don’t want this to be a conversation we keep needing to have, dammit.

Item number two:

What the fuck is this, “EVERYBODY TAKE A VAGUELY CREEPY INTEREST IN WHAT GARROSH IS AND ISN’T WEARING” WEEK? I mean really, between you and Tandeleina, what the fuck gives? Yeesh.

Item number three:

Look, I’m going to be straight with you here. Yes, sure, I can get a tailor to stitch me a new pair of pants. You think I never tried that? I’ve had I-don’t-know-how-many pairs of pants made. And I could do it again, sure. I could head right over to Magar’s Cloth and have some new pants made. And you know what would happen then? The same thing that’s happened every OTHER fucking time I’ve had new pants made: they’ll just wind up being ripped and worn from my many and sundry female fans flocking and grabbing and otherwise just… you know… trying their damnedest to get at the good stuff.

Because, you know.

#TheLadiesLoveGarrosh

#ToAnUnhealthyDegreeActually

And I mean, after a while, when that shit keeps happening, it starts getting expensive buying a new pair all the time. It’s just easier to patch them up and get a little more mileage out of them. LET IT NEVER BE SAID THAT DEAD SEXY DOESN’T COME AT A PRICE.

Hi again, Professor G.

I have it on good authority that you like tomatoes. True or false?

–Valinora “Lightshorn”, Stormwind City

…Professor G?

I mean, okay, it’s not like it doesn’t have a certain ring to it, because it does. But it makes me sound like… I don’t know… like I’m the brainiac mentor of some team of superheroes, and we have our underground compound with a Proving Grounds-type training room with animated target dummy illusions, and I’m all guiding them to get them ready to fight the good fight. Which actually isn’t completely detached from reality, come to think of it, so maybe I should get Gurtash on that.

Hmm. Nah. That shit would never take off. Also, fucking hell, I need to stop spending so much time around Spazzle. His geeky bullshit is starting to rub off on everybody.

Anyway. What was the question again? Oh, yeah, tomatoes.

And you know what? I don’t know where these rumors get started. First there was the talk about me having a half-draenei daughter (which, okay, that one was totally true), then there was the story about me getting lapdances now and again from a Zandalari troll (fine, guilty as charged on that one, too), THEN there was that business in all the Silvermoon gossip rags about the thing involving Thalassian Brandi (I will neither confirm nor deny this one)… and NOW, people are telling tales out of school that I like tomatoes?

Well, you know what? I have to draw the line somewhere, because FUCK tomatoes. You know what a tomato is? It’s a fucking food decoy. It’s some overhyped garnish that they throw into your food to make it look like you’re getting more food, only all it does is fuck everything up. You ever try taking a perfectly good burger and putting a tomato on it? You know what ends up happening? It just makes everything else in there all soggy and slippery until every part of the burger is sliding in a different fucking direction every time to try to take a damn bite, and to make matters worse, it’s taking up space that could have been devoted to something else that could be crisp and stable and actually give a little traction to help KEEP the damn thing together, like, oh, I know know, BACON.

You tell me: if someone told you you could have bacon or tomato added to your sandwich, which would YOU pick? Yeah. I thought so. FUCK THE TOMATO.

And that seems like as good a note as any to end on. More soon.

Seriously, fuck the tomato.

[Garrosh’s next mailbag will be Monday, February 1. And I promise I’ll be getting the last installment of the comic mini-arc of Gurtash’s return up ASAP. In the meantime, be getting those letters in to the Warchief — use the email link at the top of the right sidebar, or the handy form below:]