I seek guidance from my spirit animal during such troubled times. He is a Walrus named Ted. Ted is very strong and brave, unlike me. He can benchpress a car, like inControl, but win homeland tournaments, like Jaedong. He has an outrageous mustache, like Braum, and rolls a nat 20 on Charisma every time it seems like some half-orc might plant a silvered axe into his snout, like Lavarinth. He wears a tightly knit set of blue overalls woven out of sinew from orphans that always seems to struggle against his surging purple pecs but never have I seen them fray, plastic crocs he probably stole from Tyrone, and a straw hat baked in an oven heated by no fewer and no greater than one thousand albino Armenians. He has something of a pot belly, but he uses it mostly as a form of transportation, merrily bounding between hot spots in the middle east as he plunders oil for Trump's next golf cart.
Ted is a haughty traditionalist who speaks in honeyed words with a southern twang accented by his Korean heritage. He tries to keep his cat feasts to a minimum when he's in town, though, because he knows I make a living out of cat-powered rocketry. Most of our discussions revolve around his time in Vietnam as a farmer who plowed the many fertile fields of the Dear Leader's once-virgin daughters. The Dear Leader learned of his infiltration and sentenced him to fifty thousand years hard labor inside the hyperbolic time chamber, which Ted willfully submitted to because he had tarnished his own honor in allowing himself to be discovered and saw the punishment as genuine repentance. Ted's pride means that the taste of defeat is all the more sour to him than the average Walrus, like biting into a moldy sack of tofu cleverly disguised as newspapers. As a result his statements are always laced with a nature of boasting and worded in an overly flowery manner, like how he described the process of summoning his Stand, Fanny Trample, in a fifty-page poem in Chinese characters written using only his one tusk. Beneath all the semantics is an abundantly clear ode to dedication, however.
Despite his countless accomplishments and years of brutal warfare in the trenches of North America during the annexing of the last Liberal stronghold, Mount Cuckistan, Ted's face furrowed with a truly alien sense of horror and disgust when I first spoke to him about Starcraft 2. I had barely explained to him the most superficial intricacies of Raynor's thousand-point arc about how he loves tentacles and horses when he asked me if I ever intended to plant a cat rocket in its backyard. Which is to say, Ted wanted to know if I was ever going to dig for oil. Ted sees things as kind of a prospector, and his eyes can notice so minute a detail that he can fish out an oil well from a thousand leagues away. Such skills are necessary to fuel Trump's golf cart legion, his most powerful armed forces, you see.
I reasoned to myself that Ted's inquiry was a humbled but unmistakable criticism of the fertility of the fields within Starcraft 2's bossom. Surely he already knew that drilling for oil in a field drenched only in tears was simply going to lead to springing leaks all across my third Dirigible (known as the "SAFE SPACE COWBOY OF COLOR"). The previous Dirigible had been lost during a chess game against a stupid Elf possessed by Satan, but Ted had managed to save me from the scuffle with a moving performance of his Wonder Palm Death Buttsmack Attack, a special move that takes precisely five episodes and a prelude to power up. With the devil's ass firmly slapped back in place, that meant the third Dirigible, a most valued vessel, could only find ill winds by sailing into a befouled land.
Befoulded indeed were the lands of Starcraft 2, laid barren by Raynor's lust. For so pure was his single-mindedness that he had forgot to flush the toilet, unsealing the innermost pits of heck and flooding a once promising land with unspeakable evils like bandwidth caps and heat-sealed cereal bags. Scoundrels!
Ted told me to look away from Sodom and Gomorrah, else I would turn into a mound of ferrets. I did not listen. In my arrogance I believed I was capable of beholding the dark secrets of Starcraft 2's abhorrent failures. For so many aeons I had crafted aught of cat hair and formulated science beyond the wildest imaginations of my shroom-addled crow companions, but truly I had scarcely scratched a tiny filament of dead skin from Jay Wilson's thirty-seventh chin. Just as my Walrus patron had warned, upon gazing into the infinite well of grape drank that Starcraft 2 had collapsed into I felt my consciousness split apart into a thousand incomprehensibly furry and irate mammals that washed across the rapidly descending Cowboy craft like a furry convention that had just announced its first yiffing contest.
For the next hundred years I had to find each and every last one of the damnable Schrodinger's Ferrets and off them using a spatula carved in pentagrams, and for every one I returned to the quantum goat I recollected a tiny portion of my sanity. Only at the end of my grand journey could I again hear Ted's voice, whom of which patiently awaited me at the end of the fermented yellow boat road. He didn't need to say anything - his expression was more than enough. A scar remained with me from that day onwards - a scar only Starcraft 2 could give. An emptiness that had drained all the blackness out of my coffee, all the cat hair out of my GPU fan, and all of the light from day. I walked with the living again but only as a shadow, lost amongst the endless mire that was despair's thorny coil. Again, Ted would prove to be an unmoving pillar of confidence and hope, and with a single statement he again changed my life.
"Ye dun gone slipped up yer own posterior, mate. Within the gap ye gotta find anotha goat. Open yer lower to the higher 'n in the void find enlightenment."
Ted was a monk of sorts. An individual who followed a secret Freemason craft known only to the most devout of atheists. The truth of the universe could be found within an ominous "void", which one could peer within by "expanding the ring". Unfortunately for me, hearing the word "void" was now a trigger because of Starcraft 2, so I had to construct a "safe space" under my bed of herrings and very carefully expose myself to it one syllable at a time. Though... I often wondered if it was really necessary to keep disrobing myself.
The Goat I was familiar with, though.
During the time of the Jewish Inquisition I learned of The Goat, or rather, of the one called He Who Sees Goat. I was only able to speak to him for a few moments before his castle succumbed to the Christian siege lead by Sir David Manning, but it was enough to convince me that, somewhere, a great yellow Goat watches us all with a vacant, potentially malignant, stare. Like you had accidentally mooned him when performing a swan dance and he thought you were really trying to exclaim that your butt was nicer than his. The Goat in question is something of a spiteful fellow who doesn't easily let down grudges. I would later learn that the many cases of "human combustion" were really the Goat's machinations. Those who particularly irked him were set aflame by their buttcheeks vigoriously rubbing against each other until they produced a vacuum. The Goat cannot traverse physical space, he needs a dark matter singularity to manifest, which is allegedly possible through vacuum. Thus, when a butt's cheeks rub each other hard enough, they can momentarily create a vacuum that allows him brief access to the world of men. The side effect is, of course, the friction setting their bodies and anything within a few hundred kilometers on fire. The Freemasons control the media, though, so you never hear about the tremendous loss of life that comes as a result of The Goat's manifestations.
The tenuous relationship between The Goat whom of which many religions would consider a deity of dubious intentions at best and the few monks seeking wisdom from him was outlined by Ted as being more of a business transaction. When a monk sought enlightenment from The Goat they had to make an offering in kind. These offerings were extremely specific to The Goat's demands at the time, and could range from a crimson spinel to a slab of microcline carved in the shape of a crooked dong. The most relevant part of these revelations was that Starcraft 2, the endless darkness that had nearly put my cat rocketry in recession, was in fact an extreme act of violence to come from The Goat in retaliation for America's invention of the Mobile Phone. The Goat despised the Mobile Phone so hotly because of its rounded edges, which is seen as an attack on Godly entities as a body. Though The Goat doesn't hold water in man's laughable conceptions of deities or their worship of such creatures, rounded corners nonetheless are an affront to supernatural entities because they represent unsavory acts. In retribution, The Goat created Starcraft 2 to act as a catalyst for The End Days. I questioned Ted on the legitimacy of this rubbish and if he was simply trying to make me feel better about spending a hundred years swatting ferrets with a spatula, but he retrieved an ancient bible from his overalls and handed it over.
Surely enough, In Jordan 42, a prophecy is declared by Jisos that Starcraft 2 would be released by an ancient evil and bring about the end times. No mention of a chosen one to wield a magic sword to defeat it, just reducto ad ferretum to all who dared gaze in its general direction.
The moral of the story is that unless you want to spend the rest of your silly mortal existence chasing the tails of your own ferrets with a rusty spatula you'd best spin your own Dirigible wide-wise, turn 360 degrees and walk away.