“Point Salad!” Bah! A title that makes goblins hiss. A salad is not a game, it’s elf punishment food. Humans took lettuce and carrots, slapped numbers on them, and called it a masterpiece. Goblins do not eat salad — we devour bones, fry mushrooms, and gnaw on cheese rinds. Already the stench of disappointment fills the swamp.

Over a hundred vegetable cards. Carrots, onions, peppers, lettuce. That’s it. Just vegetables! When goblins see a hundred vegetables, we don’t play — we set them on fire. Where are the skulls, explosions, or cursed artifacts? No slime, no blood, not even a single rotten tomato to throw. Just a tidy stack of greenery. Weak!

Here’s the so‑called challenge: pick vegetables, pick scoring cards, make a salad worth more points than your neighbor’s salad. That’s it! This isn’t a game, it’s grocery shopping. “Collect carrots for points.” “Collect peppers for points.” In goblin culture, collecting too many carrots earns you exile. Strategy? You call choosing between a lettuce or a scoring card strategy? Real goblin strategy is: which wall do I smash first, and who do I bite while doing it.

Theme? None. Just vegetables on a table. A salad is not a theme, it’s a sad appetizer. If you want goblins to play, give us Point Swamp with slime and bones. Or Point Cheese, where the winner hoards the most before Jugbite eats it all. Anything but this pile of fresh disappointment.

The only “interaction” is stealing the vegetable another human wanted. Oooo, conflict! You took my onion! What thrilling drama. Pathetic. A proper goblin game ends with mud, shouting, and someone missing a tooth. Here it’s just produce envy.

Final Verdict

Point Salad is quick, simple, and colorful. Perfect for humans who like counting vegetables. For goblins, it’s an insult. I will not waste swamp time tallying cabbages. The only joy I had was using a lettuce card to scrape mud from under my nails.

Krizbella’s Rotten Score: 6 Mushrooms out of 10
And why 6, not 2? Hmph. Because even though I’d rather chew gravel than eat lettuce, the blasted game is quick, colorful, and sneaky enough to make humans argue. I give it credit for causing squabbles at the table — music to goblin ears. And the cards? Easy to throw across the room when you lose. That alone is worth a couple mushrooms. Still, don’t mistake this for goblin approval — it’s salad, and salad is an insult to proper food. In the end, salad is not a meal, it’s punishment. Call it points all you want, humans — to goblins it’s just leaves pretending to be victory.

By Krizbella

The Rotten Rise of Krizbella Long before she was “Princess of Disappointment,” Krizbella was born in the dank, dripping caverns beneath the Swamp of 1000 Leeches. Her first cry wasn’t a wail — it was a grumble. The midwife swore she scowled at the world before she even opened her eyes. From the start, Krizbella refused to play like the other goblin whelps. While her clutchmates happily wrestled mud slugs or stole shiny pebbles, she would sit with her arms crossed, muttering that the slugs were “slimy and stupid” and the pebbles “all the wrong shapes.” Still, the other goblins adored her grouchiness. A goblin who could complain louder than a troll burp? Clearly destined for greatness. As she grew, Krizbella developed a talent for finding fault in everything: She told the shamans their spells “smelled like burnt fungus.” She mocked the chieftain’s war plans as “cube-pushing nonsense.” She insulted the swamp spirits for being “too drippy.” Instead of being punished, the tribe crowned her with a crooked gold crown stolen from a passing caravan. “If she’s going to complain about everything,” the goblins said, “let her do it royally.” It was around then she met High Chief Jugbite the Grim. He was the only goblin stubborn enough not to be driven mad by her constant scolding. Some say he fell in love when she called him a “stupid, tusk-faced lummox” during a raid. The two married in the traditional goblin fashion: biting each other until both were satisfied. Now, Krizbella rules beside Jugbite. She’s less a queen and more a permanent critic-in-chief. She scoffs at goblin feasts (“too crunchy”), sneers at war loot (“shinies are too shiny”), and rants endlessly about human board games (“where are the goblins?!”). And yet, the tribe loves her. A goblin princess who snarls, growls, and keeps everyone else miserable? That’s leadership.

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