So the love of my life brought back three things from Dragoncon this year.  She brought back an autographed picture of Patrick Stewart, an autographed picture of Spock and Kirk signed by Nemoy and the Shat, and a possible case of the swine flu.  Apparently Donya’s friend was a plague carrier this weekend, and was diagnosed today with the H1N1 virus.  That means that Saira, in her loving and charitable manner, may have brought my death to me.  No one’s really surprised.

I’m all too aware that it is nigh impossible to cavort about a convention where thirty thousand people are jammed packed shoulder to shoulder into three hotels like some Japanese political rally without exposing oneself to more infections than Courtney Love’s anus.  The risk of contamination increases exponentially when one considers the not insignificant minority of the participants of the Con who seem to be philosophically opposed to soap and water.  And toothpaste.  And, in some fetidly horrible examples, toilet paper.  It’s like a huge kindergarten class, if somewhere in the continental United States there were a school where 5 year olds are getting shitfaced and squeezing themselves into outfits that they have NO BUSINESS wearing.

Bully for the person whose self image is not controlled by the outside world’s perception of them.  It is admirable to witness a person whose value is weighed against the standards that they set for themselves, as opposed to the ridiculously mercurial standards that popular culture defines in meticulous detail in order to sell clothes, magazines and God.  I am impressed by those self confident people… just not when they try to squeeze their 215 pound skin suit into a skimpy Wal-Mart bathing suit that has been Magic-Markered to death in an effort to make it look like Sailor Moon’s.  Leave that shit at home.  Please!  No one wants to see your engorged donkey oscillate with every jolt that your miserable and straining five-inch boot heel sends up your well fed frame.  It’s a God damned shame that these people don’t have enough good friends who are willing to take that bullet by informing Chunkzilla that even at a convention where grown assed people dress as Wookies and cartoon characters, NOBODY wants to see a deuce-and-a-half poured into a Star Wars slave girl outfit.  It’s just uncalled for.  In fact… it’s nasty.

I’m no paragon of fitness myself, but I am man enough to admit it.  No one’s going to see my soft pretty ass crack peeking out from a tiger striped Speedo, and for good reason.  Assuming for a brief minute that I actually succeeded in tricking myself into thinking that there were people in this world that would actually want to see such a visage, I have a failsafe that protects both me and you:  An honest girlfriend.

Saira would kick me square in my banana hammock if I ever tried to fool myself like that, and we can all thank Christ for that.  So I’m left to ask the question that damned near everyone wants to ask those hefty delusional convention goers:  Who are your friends and why in God’s sacred and holy secret name did they let you leave your room like THAT?  Maybe I should play the asshole card next year and show up with an ass-load of cheap rain ponchos to hand out to those enthusiasts to cover up with.  It’s not very nice to them, but it’s unimaginably kind to every other person in the whole fucking world.