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Last week, I was sent to
San Diego Comic-Con as, I assumed, a reward for the stellar work I probably do around here but was, I realize in retrospect, more than likely a punishment for all the shitty work I certainly do around here. Comic-Con is all nerds, geeks, movies and comics--in short, it
should be my Promised Land but, in actuality, it's like a very specific kind of Hell designed by a devil who digs
Twilight, hates deodorant and absolutely loves shrieking crowds of lunatics.
Go to Comic-Con next year, and see if your observations at all line up with mine.
Holy Shit There Are So Many of You
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Over 120,000 sweaty, excitable people tried cramming into this goddamned place and there's just no way to manage a crowd of that size. A lot of the general discomfort surrounding the Convention floor can be traced back to the numbers; you can't cool down, because of all the mouth-breathing spectators, you can't stretch without punching a Stormtrooper and you can't get a boner for fear of getting it tangled up with some three-foot tall elf mage with wandering hands (true story). The floor is too crowded to move comfortably, and if some asshole somewhere stops to gawk at something or pose for pictures (and they will), you can just forget about moving. If you get sick of swampassing your way through the floor, you're alternatives are A) waiting four hours in line for a panel or B) fucking yourself. The line for one panel was so long. (
How long was it! It was
so long that you can go eat shit because there's nothing funny about wasting an entire day in line when you normally waste your entire day online.) The line was so enormous that overwhelmed convention employees started telling to anyone who would listen that, "This line is closed for the next panel. And the one after that. All panels, just- Get out of this line, no one else is getting in this room for the rest of the day and night," which was screamed at around 2:30pm. Employees abandoned their jobs and opted to tell convention-goers that