Scrabble.

Strangely, several times in the past couple of months, I have been told by males of my acquaintance that they could and would kick my ass at Scrabble. These people do not know each other; I have never played Scrabble with any of them. And yet, the bravado. The threat. The Scrabble.

Umm. Okay.

See, here’s the thing. I’m no Scrabble champ. I’ve played it probably less than a dozen times in my life. Yes, I’m a very good speller, and I have a good vocabulary, but I am not passionately fond of word puzzles or the like. (I enjoy them sometimes, but my attention span never zeroes in on any one addiction for very long.) My fondness for a number of types of mental acrobatics was tainted long ago in public school enrichment classes. Additionally, I have no competitive streak. If you beat me at Scrabble? I won’t care. That would probably suck some of the sweetness out of it for whoever “conquers” me in the etymological gladiatorial ring.

Perhaps my lack of passion for Scrabble relates to the fact that it’s relatively hard to cheat well playing it. You see, that is how I enjoy playing games. I love to win, but not by playing well and making smart choices. I love to win by being sneaky and devious and playing with friends stupid enough to let me be the banker. Hey, I am what I am. Der Scheißemischer. Dad and I were cheating (and laughing our asses off) playing games together since I was three.

So bring on the Scrabble. Handicap me. Take all the e’s. Whatever. I still win. And you know it. 🙂

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