Really, It Isn't My Fault When You Get Right Down to It.
The first Ogre I ever killed was called Smorgoth the Destroyer and he was a named non-player character that ran a dive in the bad section of town. He was seven feet tall, wore a boar's tusk in his left ear for an earring, and liked to insult all of the low level players that had come into his bar since there was no way we should be able to harm him.
I had come in to the game late and was nursing a Sam Adams while the Dungeon Master did his best to insult each of us at the table. From what I could tell he had spent most of the week trying to come up with clever insults that used bastardized versions of our characters' names. Nothing too insulting was really being said as his goal was to establish a semi-adversarial relationship with us that would develop into something more substantial over time. Most everyone exchanged a little barb with him as their turn came up, and then he got to me. "And you call yourself a fighter, Nancy?"
I leapt over the bar and gouged the big bastard's right eye out to the dismay of both my Dungeon Master and fellow players. "Are you crazy," the Dungeon Master practically whispered in disbelief. "That Ogre's a seventh level challenge rating."
I replied by shoving my dagger into his other eye and being flung across the room for my troubles. The other players started to join me but I waved them off.
"He charges you," the Dungeon Master said.
How? Did he suddenly grow a new set of eyes?
"Um," he said as he groped for an answer that wouldn't easily come, "Well, he's charging towards where he threw you."
I tumbled out of his reach and made my way around him, easily avoiding his wild swings, and taking my time slicing up the flailing bastard. It took me four rounds to finally drop the son of a bitch and another to cut off his head while everyone looked at me with these silly grins on their faces.
"Why did you," the Dungeon Master began and trailed off as he shook his head.
I like killing Ogres; it pleases me.