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Archives: Jul 2013

Boy, that escalated quickly

Bob: Here we are, Jim, back again at the Tall Ships festival in Duluth, MN. Every citizen under the age of 5 or older than 75 with a huge boner for slow-moving objects is here and ready to stare at ships that are slightly taller than usual.

Jim: If I understand correctly, Bob, it’s such a boring event that they actually just call it “Tall Ships”.

Bob: Yes, there’s really no use getting fancy with the name. It is literally just ships that are tall. Many of them are also very wooden, though the festival name makes no mention of that.

Jim: The organizers of the festival have perhaps gotten a bit cocky?

Bob: Yes, it’s once again just a big circle jerk for the slightly taller ships, and a big middle finger to the slightly more wooden ones. It doesn’t matter though, because as usual for the Twin Ports, this event is mainly just an excuse for people to get drunk.

Diary of a Social Retard

It was 1am when the Amtrak train pulled into San Diego. Two other passengers and I exited and quietly followed the dark sidewalk leading to the Gaslamp District. A block later, it was only me and an older man following the path. Another block after that, I was on my own.

The convention center was silent and deserted. The dim buzzing of the light fixtures were the only sound aside from my own footsteps. There were no cars, no people, no life. Not even a breeze blowing through the trees. San Diego had transformed into a ghost town. Everyone knew it was coming, and they were all hibernating in anticipation. In 17 hours, Comic Con would begin and the entire city would turn to chaos.

One quarter mile later, I reached the other end of the convention center. Three people were lined up near the main doors with crude supplies – things that could be easily discarded or folded into a backpack when the doors opened the next day. In quiet voices they discussed topics like Christopher Nolan’s fall from grace with the new Superman film, DC’s crippling dependence on Batman as their only successful film character and the importance of not having Ewoks in the upcoming Star Wars films. These were my people, and I was in the right place.

Well, that was a disappointing urination

I shook twice. That’s all it should take. Once for necessity and a second time for good luck. That’s all a man should need. Yet it appears I needed more. It appears that the first two shakes were just the pre-game, and not the main event. It appears that my jeans now have a few drops of pee on them.

It’s happened to all of us at least a few times, but a man can’t publicly admit to such a thing. This world is a fragile place, and with a shocking secret like that, who knows how society would react? My friends would likely desert me. Former lovers would stop rejoicing to everyone about my totally rad sex moves. My parents would have me digitally removed from all their family photos. There’s no room in the family for someone with urine on their pants. Those drops might as well be on my soul.

My pants will dry on their own in a few minutes, but I can’t hide out in this godforsaken place for that long. There’s a guy in one of the stalls who’s smokin’ me out with all the fumes he’s producing in there. I have to make a move, but I can’t hit the streets like this. No sir. I need to come up with a “Plan B”.

A poorly written guide to Comic Con panels

Next week is Comic Con, an annual gathering of people who can’t get an erection. I’m kidding! Kinda. It’s actually a gathering of people who can’t discuss the new Star Trek or Star Wars movies without throwing a temper tantrum that ends with them sobbing like a little girl. Again, just joking. True nerds like that haven’t been able to get into Comic Con for years. These days, the people running the convention give 90 percent of the tickets to pretty people who work at film studios.

Being quite pretty and douchebaggy myself, I managed to score a ticket. I’m looking forward to braving the crowds, standing in line for hours with people who actually think getting a seat closer to Kevin Bacon will make their view more enjoyable. I plan to buy at least $700 worth of toys and be wasted the entire time. The latter is frowned upon, but so is peeing in the back corner of the room during the Funky Winkerbean panel, and lots of people do that.

Seriously though, I’m not a douchebag. I’m actually a very honorable guy. Does anyone know if IGN will be at the convention? I want to see if that blonde host with the weird mole on her forehead will give me a handy in exchange for JJ Abrams’ phone number. I wrote it down a few years back when I was working for a casting director (or at least that’s what I plan to tell her).

The art of tying 17 screaming rockets together, and other things I miss about Wisconsin

The best way to smuggle fireworks across the border is by yourself. If you have too many “bros” together in one car traveling across the Hudson, the fuzz will notice you pretty quick. But a man by himself ain’t causing no harm. No sir. He’s just heading home from work. He’s definitely not buying 34 pounds of illegal fireworks that he and his friends will light and throw into people’s yards as they drive around the neighborhood every night for two months.

Which is really fun, by the way. I’d highly recommend it.

Some people like to play it safe and take the long way back through Stillwater. You’re almost guaranteed not to get pulled over through that route, but it takes twice as long. I feel it’s a little paranoid. The tall tales of undercover officers writing down license plate numbers in the parking lot and radioing them to squad cars at the border may be true, but I’ve never seen it myself. It seems about as likely as being foiled by Batman. Then again, I always just made one big haul in early June, when Batman is still training in Bhutanese prisons. Enforcement is likely stepped up closer to the holiday.