I’m happy to be back in my slightly worn saddle at our brand new venue, the Collective Brotherhood of Righteousness. It seems like only yesterday that I agreed to contractual terms at gunpoint with CBR’s team of legal experts at Scaletti, Scaletti and Soprano – oh, how we laughed when the police arrived just as Gino and Vinny playfully dunked my head in the Piranha tank!
CBR seems like an exciting place to resume this esteemed column – it’s a futuristic, computer-controlled environment based at Groom Lake in the Nevada desert, and staffed by resentful automatons. It may surprise you to learn that underneath his fake “Surrogates” plasti-skin, Comrade Overlord Jonah Weiland is the spitting image of Yul Brynner. (And for those of you – and by that I mean all of you – who don’t know who Yul Brynner is, look up the movie “Westworld” and you may stand a chance of getting that joke. Failing that, watch “Terminator 2”).
This week, we’re going to be addressing the thorny subject of how to take pictures of half naked women while you are married… and still get away with it! Aiding me in this noble and somewhat dangerous endeavor: my three year-old son, Little Dude.
So join me if you will for a naughty little number I like to call…
IN SEARCH OF THE PERFECT WOMAN
Now it has long been accepted both in the comics community, and by people who know me well, that I am a complete fucking idiot. This is especially true when I am exposed to fans at comic conventions, as longtime readers of FADH will know (see: my previous adventures with convention amputees). I have accidentally alienated comic book enthusiasts in forty-seven of the forty-eight contiguous United States. Those aforementioned longtime readers (yes, both of you!) will recall my many forays into the thrilling sport of Klingon Hunting. And to this day, the guy who played Wookie Number Seven in “Star Wars” scowls at me because he believes I made fun of Sir Alec Guinness’ passing. To be clear, Wookie Number Seven, I made fun of you for pretending to know Sir Alec when in fact you once bought a cup of coffee for his stunt double at the Paramount cafeteria.
But I am nothing if not (a) stubborn (b) adventurous and (c) masochistic. Thus, when the yearly Dragon*Con weekend rolled into town, I felt urged – nay, compelled – to drive downtown for a few days so that I could laugh and point at the crazy people. No doubt, the crazy people had come downtown to be pointed at. To my mind, this makes Dragon*Con a self sustaining geekosystem, where the people in costumes are like innocent baby seals and I am the Exxon Corporation ready to exploit them and dump all over their natural habitat. Enter Jenkins stage left, armed with his trusty Klingon Hunting camera. This was going to be like shooting fish in a barrel with a bazooka!
And therein lay the problem: all one had to do was hold up a camera, point and click and voila… thirty freaks per square inch! It was so mind-numbingly amazing that all of my photos were, frankly, quite boring. I could see this was going to require a little creative thought. And what better way to spice things up than enlist the aid of my three year-old kid? Exactly. There isn’t one.
I explained my nefarious plan to Little Dude. He thought it was funny. I explained it to my Nigh Perfect wife. She didn’t seem to think it quite as funny, but hey, at that point the family had taken a vote and she was shit out of luck. I told her I was going to make it the subject of an upcoming FLOGGING.
“Every time you want to do something stupid you tell me it’s for one of those columns,” she said. “In case you haven’t worked it out by now, I’m wise to your plan.”
I think she is getting wise to my plan.
Nevertheless, Little Dude and I were now ready to pick up babes. Nigh Perfect sighed, rolled her eyes and tagged patiently along as I went in search of scantily clad convention chicks, using a preschooler dressed as the Big Bad Wolf for bait. For yes, Little Dude had also come in costume, and he was as cute as a violent, carnivorous button. If a few thousand drunken grown ups were going to stand around pretending to be someone else for a few days then by Criminy he wasn’t going to miss the party!
Now at this point I would like to digress for a moment: I know, I know… it seems like I’m using the people in costumes as easy targets. But if I’m being completely honest, I have to say Dragon*Con is a genuinely amazing event populated by tens of thousands of people who harm nobody and enjoy themselves immensely. I have nothing but affection and admiration for the many insane people who dress as fictional characters and believe themselves to actually be that person for four or five days. It’s just that I tend to save my costumes for Halloween. Digression over.
Little Dude and I decided to head for the main “posing” floor, where costumed crazies congregate en masse to strut their stuff. Outside the hotel entrance we found this stalwart fellow:
I loved this wizard. He totally looked the part as he stood there blowing perfect smoke rings into the air. For another, when I explained Little Dude’s mission to him, he pointed us inside to where he thought the best talent was congregating. (After the show, Little Dude told me he thought the “Boy Witch” was his favorite).
However, we were no closer to our goal. We were going to find the perfect woman if it killed us. And judging by the steam occasionally emanating from Nigh Perfect’s ears, being killed was a strong possibility.
We meet this pretty fairy who says she’ll point us in the direction of a beautiful princess if the Big Bad Wolf will tell her a story in return.
I would like to thank the lovely ladies of convixens.com for providing Little Dude with some serious weaponry and bragging rights at his preschool. It should be noted that this must only be attempted if you are three years of age, or are the parent of a three year-old. The Collective Brotherhood of Righteousness takes no responsibility should any of our male chums be relieved of their undercarriage while pretending to be three years of age just to get in a photo with a con vixen.
Well, there you have it: when Satan comes to my deathbed – and he surely will after this wizard jape, Chums – I’d like to think he’ll give me a high five for this one before he consigns me to the Fifth Circle of Hell.
“Jenkins,” he’ll say with a twinkle in his eye, “That ruse with the convention chicks was pretty sweet. I wish I’d thought of it myself.
But I can’t believe you were such a dick to the amputees.”
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