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Hello, My Name is Dinkles Jenkins and I Would Like to Hooglesmorf Your Foofendorf

Comic Con is chock full of assholes. Chronic masturbators who shower less than Somalian refugees. Unemployed people who got a “professional” badge because they run a blog that studies footage of Yoda’s groin movements to determine his penis length. Twenty-four year old screeching hyenas from the film industry who only come for the booze. Normal families with children. They’re all bastards, the whole filthy lot of them. Bastards who are in your way.

In their normal lives, Comic Con attendees are upstanding citizens who strive to make their communities a better place. But five straight days at this convention has a way of removing the good from people with an almost surgical precision. The quiet, humble schoolteacher, when forced to battle a crowd of thousands to attend a Twin Peaks panel, will quickly become a ferocious Bolshevik with no regard for human life.

It’s important to get in line before it’s too late. Mere seconds matter as if each one were encrusted with diamonds. Woman holding a baby? “Get the fuck out of the way, asshole!” Elderly man with a walking cane? “Quit blocking the aisle, you useless old bag of shit!” Mother Teresa herself could stop to help a leper and 100 people behind her would kick her in the back. “I love Twin Peaks, you dumb twat!” they’d shout angrily. “If I miss it, I’ll come back here and fucking kill you!”

There are also nice people, of course, but all of them are dead by day two. Only the strong survive Comic Con. The corpses of the weak are piled into the less popular panels where men older than Jesus read from textbooks about sculpting. Any who survive such lethal boredom will hang themselves with their belts once they realize the Twin Peaks panel attendees received free promotional t-shirts in a size not of their choosing.

After squeezing through piles of sweaty couchbeef and waiting in line four hours for a panel only to realize it was actually the line to the women’s restroom, people tend to get agitated. It’s not uncommon at these sorts of gatherings to find a moderately hairy man in a Wonder Woman costume wrestling another grown man dressed as Rey from Star Wars. This is why it’s wise to keep drugs in your backpack, to enhance such things.

Don’t take too many drugs, though. High strung and paranoid is not a good mindset when attending a convention that specializes in sensory overload. There are points during the convention where one can’t even remember what it was like to not have multiple sweaty people pressed tightly against their body at all times. If attendees weren’t allowed to purchase microwaved hot dogs for $14, or an even $40 if they add a fountain drink, they’d all starve to death from stupidity.

Quality food and other resources at Comic Con are scarce. Only one legitimate supermarket exists in downtown San Diego, and they’re ransacked by day three as if a mob of anarchists tore through the aisles, destroying anything they couldn’t carry. This is not something you can get angry about. It’s simply good strategy. Take away your competitor’s food source and they won’t have the strength to get in line before you at tomorrow’s panels.

Most attractions at Comic Con are within walking distance except for your hotel, which is likely somewhere in Mexico or Arizona. They’re the only states that still have affordable rooms. Younger people tend to stay closer to the convention center. Their $400 per night rooms are like refugee camps, with eight people crammed into each one, utilizing every possible inch of bed, floor and shower space. Using the restroom during the night is strictly forbidden, to keep people from getting stepped/micturated upon.

If a ninth person comes along looking to crash, they’ll have to cozy up on one of the couches in the hotel lobby. The cleaning crew at the Hilton sweeps the drunks out of the common areas each morning, but one only needs to crawl over to the bar for a bloody mary before returning to their sleeping spot once the morning staff takes over. It’s identical to moving your car to avoid the street sweeper, which is why most young people take to it so naturally.

After five days of waiting in lines to see exclusive trailers that the general public will see a week later for free, fandom starts to dwindle. Sleeping in their own bed becomes a weird thing attendees would like to try. Eating at a restaurant that has more than four entrees listed and doesn’t charge $40 for each seems like a bold idea. It any attendees are still in San Diego by 1pm Sunday, it’s only because they’re dead.

Staggering into the Amtrak station half-crazed on no sleep, with an intense desire to never see another human being again, attendees will of course be forced to ride a train so packed full of human beings that they’ll have to get rip roaring drunk to endure it. It’s a fine euphemism for life.


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