the first rule of scrabble club, is that you do not talk about scrabble club

I am an idiot who deserves to be locked up one day in a padded room.
And I am totally cool with this conclusion to life. Do not, under any circumstances, ruin my fucking dreams.
Cartoons, rigid routine, arts and crafts, therapy and heavy sedation - can you say *Cherub Mecca Bliss* three times fast?

When I openly admit to you that I do things solely to amuse myself (bonus if any one of you is amused as well, but let me be honest about my true intention here), I do not think that most people really understand how far I will or have gone in order to laugh. The few that have been privy to my repeated nonsense (making Big Lebowski sock puppets, lighting stuffed animals on fire, creating fish slings for injured fish, taking polaroids in homage to Kevin Federline's masterpiece of a debut album release) truly understand because they, through some random act of late night insanity fueled scientifical mania idea hatching, were wrangled by guilt (I am good at guilting, even better when there is no real reason for to bestow the guilt) into coming along for the ride. Rides are fun. Just look at stupid dogs in cars (not that any of you are stupid, please, DOGS are all stupid but happy to ride in cars thats all I was trying to say, and damn it, NO arguments, this blog post is not about dogs or their intelligence quotient, we can verbally spar about that FACT later on) (ok, some of you ARE stupid but I love you any way) (not stupid like dogs though, they drool. fucking gross).

Your honor, The Prosecution would like to present Evidence A: My Underground Scrabble Club Facebook Profile.
So, today, I logged into my top secret Facebook profile in order to post a status update on the account, that no one but me will ever see.
Then I laughed. Ha. I just laughed again.

Last year, I created the profile with a few other friends because I liked to play Facebook Scrabble but for reasons I am unable to recall, this little bunny did not think merely playing was fun enough. I had to play in private under a secret name and anyone who wanted to play with me, had to do the same. Oh yes. I am not the only one, just the little man behind the curtain (don't ask for a brain by the way, we are all out).
But why should I not share? Why should this be private? BECAUSE I SAY SO!
I like private, which is why I blog in secret. I am ashamed of my brain.
Not really.
I dunno. I am weird.
I like Scrabble.

[cue: bunny leaps out of closet dressed in orange striped shirt, wearing a pink florescent wig and brandishing a pelican]
For you who are bored. For you who have never done anything illogical just to amuse yourself. For you who like secrets. For you who are just fucking curious and might pee your pants otherwise.
For you, I resurrect this Retardedness of Tingly Grandeur (version 2) In the year of our Cosmos: 2010.
Come play in the sandbox with me.
I am openly inviting anyone who reads or one day happens upon this blog to join in.

All newly ordained 3rd graders: Here is what you do.
Using an anonymous email, sign up for Facebook under a made up name. Your new Underground Facebook Profile.
Be... creative.
Find and befriend me. Mary Jane Sprankles. You can actually find me listed as a friend on the xylem lagomorpha : wood rabbit Facebook page some of you have already "liked".

Keep in mind, there should be no visible links to anything representing actual you.
Don't befriend yourself or any of your friends, anonymity is half the fun.
Maintain character when leaving comments on my page or others.
And if you want to get your ass kicked in Scrabble, leave me a comment that you'd like to play.
If you are interested.

Or lock me up.
(see ya around)

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