Dear TRS, my sweet thangs. You are the light of my disgusting life. If it were not for TRS I would never have risen up from the La Brea tar pits to play their lovely game. I would still be wanderin the local swamp holdin screamin matches with birds if not for TRS. I would still be hidin in storm drains and spittin on the ankles of Croc wearers that dared to walk past my domain if not for TRS. I would still perceive the “Minions” phenomenon as something that “should exist” or is “any good at all” if not for the dedicated and spiritually lovecraftian folks at TRS.
From the moment I first saw Phil sigh internally when an interviewer made and “evolve” pun, to the 20th time I saw him endure the same unholy pun, I knew this was a group of folks I could enjoy. From the 24 hour livestreams that I inexplicably and casually stayed up for the entirety of, to the Shara memes and moments and memories(memomentories), to the dank sleepless nights spent watchin pro’s throw down on stream and memeing as hard as I could in chat.
I wrote this in a hurry, as one of those weird sex cults of mask wearing aristocrats is trying to break into my home and put a buncha moron snakes all in my stuff, just because I told them them "Masquerades are for nerds like Edgar Allen Lame-o " and said their party “had too much chanting”, but my appreciation is as real to me as the screaming birds that follow and harangue me for treats.