I wasn't always an old, boring married man. I used to be a young, boring single man. Here's some nostalgia for you:
My roommate plays in a "Vampire: The Masquerade" LARP. For those lucky few of you unfamiliar with the concept, this is where a bunch of pasty, overweight geeks pretend to be pale creatures that never have sex and feel a constant urge to feed. I'm not sure where the pretending comes in, but that's not important. What's important is thanks to my roommate and his host of pseudo vampires I attended my first Sci-Fi convention last weekend.
Also my last Sci-Fi convention.
Of course, in order to attend and observe the geeks, it was necessary to blend in with them. I had to dress the part. My first choice was black trousers, black shoes and white socks. It certainly made me look like I belonged at a Sci-Fi convention. Unfortunately, I was unwilling to be seen in public like that.
So I went with plan B and dressed as a Romulan. Not only did I look like I belonged, but I could also walk around grabbing my crotch and asking "who wants a ride on my warbird?" In retrospect this should have been plan A.
I arrived at the convention in full Romulan regalia, and immediately felt a new sensation that I'd never experienced before. I felt slender. Slender, well sexed and well adjusted. My friend Ryu, who I invited for moral support, was less exhilarated. As 6 butter-beasts in Anime t-shirts walked by, he remarked "You know, if we'd won WWII, we'd have had their kind exterminated."
At this point, two guys in imperial storm trooper outfits walked by. They had little rainbow stickers on the back of their uniforms. Just what I needed to see, gay storm troopers. Now, every time I watch Star Wars all I can think about is hot clone on clone action. I used to like Star Wars, now I love it.
I would have turned around and left if it hadn't been for the Klingons. I like Klingons. Whether they were strutting about like they owned the place, scarfing down Cheetos in the hospitality suite or just relaxing with a bit of karaoke, the Klingons never got old.
The fat women in bondage gear got old fast though. In fact, some of them had gotten old during the Coolidge administration. I had no idea they made rubber dresses in a size 36, but I know they shouldn't. Wow. After a half hour of these blubbery belles, I began questioning my own sexuality. Not that I found the men more attractive, it was more the "giving up on the human race entirely" sort of sexuality questioning. I was looking around for a nice brook trout to slam my meaty shaft into.
I didn't find one, but I did manage to locate the bar. That helped. After 2 beers, 3 long islands and a shot of Don Julio, the weirdoes didn't seem so weird. It was time to start messing with people.
Every time the gay storm troopers walked past, I would wave my hand and say "these aren't the hard throbbing cocks you're looking for." The one on the left told me to move along, so I pointed at his crotch and said "aren't you a little short for a storm trooper?" He hit me.
So I went off in search of easier prey and that's when I saw them, the only 4 attractive women in the entire hotel, standing together in the lobby. What followed will no doubt go down in history as the infamous "warbird decloaking incident of 2004." Needless to say the shields went up and it was red alert time. Fortunately nobody recognized me after I ditched the wig, costume and makeup, so I didn't get arrested.
After that, Ryu and I decided to hit the room parties and find a good time.
Room party number one: a man with no front teeth was boasting about his ability to channel "psychic energy." I asked him if he could channel a dental plan. Then I was asked to leave.
Room party number two: a 350 pound woman in a halter top was boasting about her high pain threshold. Eleven well chosen words later, she left the room in tears. The Mighty Incognomen would like to take this opportunity to remind you that not all pain is physical.
Room party number three: we didn't make it. On our way there, we pass a 250 pound middle aged woman dressed as Sailor Moon. Ryu began weeping and denying the existence of God.
He'd matched me shot for shot despite weighing half as much and could not be consoled. I began shaking him and screaming "Snap out of it man! You can handle this, you're Japanese! Your ancestors gave us the Bataan Death March and the Rape of Nanking, don't dishonor their memories!"
It didn't help, so I left him to go to the dance.
Everyone, at least once in their life, should watch Sci-Fi fans attempt to dance. It's hard to describe, but here goes: Imagine if they held a wheelchair race in Pamplona during the running of the bulls. It would be horrible, bloody and cruel, yet funny as hell. The dance was kind of the same way.
There were 3 types of dancers: too large to move well, too spastic to move well and the pink blob.
The pink blob was topless, wearing a pink tutu and holding two giant feathered fans. It shook and wobbled and waved the fans about in a manner that could not, under any conceivable definition of the term, be described as dancing. In fact, the pink blob moved faster when the music stopped.
The pink blob was about 5 feet tall, 3 feet wide and shaped like, like, well really, like a turd. Pointed at each end, lumpy in the middle and with little visible chunks of corn. Well they were pustules in the pink blob's case, but the effect was similar. I'm not sure if the pink blob was a he or a she, or even what phylum the creature belonged to.
I was looking for an impromptu weapon with which to harpoon this monstrosity when I got busted. Yes, I had failed to pay the $40 convention registration fee and snuck into the dance without a pass. I was thrown out before I could put an end to the pink blob and its reign of terror.
Not sure what happened to Ryu. I think he's still in a hallway at the hotel, curled up in the fetal position crying.
