For four days in April of 2005, Jeff,
Liz, Joe Brown and I spent a weekend that we hoped would become
forgettable as time went on. Regrettably, the pain inflicted upon us
by the maelstrom that was Star Wars Celebration III shall never be purged
from our minds. If the gyri of the brain are representative of
memories, the four of us now have them formed of scar tissue to forever remind
us of that miserable convention. But would I hand out $150.00 to be raped
in the ass by George Lucas again? Gladly, because I was weaned on
the teat of the original Star Wars trilogy, and I'll sadly die a fan of
the three films (undoubtedly the same caliber geek I am today).
In March, I decided I was going to
attend the Mecca of Star Wars nerddom. Jeff, Joe and Liz decided
that they too wanted to test their love of the fictitious universe and
foolishly volunteered to accompany me. When we got there, the three
of them were noticeably nonplussed by the sad level of obsessive
fanaticism they were surrounded by. I wasn't dumbfounded because I
had attended the Star Wars Celebration II in 2002. It, like
Celebration III, was held at the Indianapolis Convention Center, home of
the Hoosier Meatgazer Urinals. What's that? Don't want a dumpy
Boba Fett covered in Cheetos dust ogling your buffalo shot while you
piss? Then you've got two choices: wait for the members of the 501st
Imperial Legion to finish changing into their stormtrooper costumes and
free up a stall or hold your urine until your bladder bursts.
Miserable already? We've only been here an hour. Only
thirty-nine or so to go.
Anyway, we spent a great deal of time,
crammed in lines amidst the cacophony of toy lightsabers and poor Darth
Vader imitations and the olfactory din of body odor, basement musk and abstinence.
The phrase "crammed in lines" can't be overemphasized.
After all, this was no trip to the DMV for a license renewal. No,
you're talking shoulder-to-shoulder "train ride to Auschwitz"
people packing going on. So, due to this and the overwhelming senses
of malaise, violation and exploitation, we dubbed our excursion to
Indianapolis as Star Wars Concentration Camp. Our convention passes
were our patches of identification and shame. Our oppressors were
the convention security guards. We had to pass the time in some
manner that would allow us to keep our wits about us. So, we
resorted to what we knew best: making derisive remarks at
others.
The four of us (Joe and I especially)
spent a great deal of time making commentary about our peers as we stood for hours on end trapped in nonmoving lines. Now, if you think that
doing so is hypocritical, let me assure you that never did we sink to the
level that other fans in attendance did. I showed my support by
donning a Star Wars themed necktie. I did not show it by burdening myself with a bulky, crude, vision-impairing costume I spent the last
seventeen Friday nights constructing. Those are the fans that take a
lot of crap from others. True, if they're ever to receive any
adulation for their efforts, then the convention was the proper
atmosphere. But my sanity was at risk, so they soon became the
target of my humor.
Joe and I kept on the lookout for
costumes that were more pathetic than the mean. When one would
appear, we tried to see who could come up with a wittier
moniker. Names like "Darth Palsy" "Admiral
Angioplasty" and "Corporal Corpulent" all arose from this
game. After a while, even less creative epithets like "Grand
Moff Old" or "Boba Fatass" became excessively funny. If you
think that we seriously lack maturity, I want you to feast your eyes on
the photos below, and try to resist laughing, making a crack or even
smirking at these fans.
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First we have "Jedi Master Powder"
She still haunts my nightmares. |
"Quickie Mart Han" will
gladly transport your Slush-Puppie to another galaxy for a
price. |
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The "Bride of Jabba" ate a man who
cut ahead in the Kit Fisto autograph line. Don't think she
wouldn't do the same to you. |
What's that? Screw Star Wars, you
say? Well, as long as you're wearing your "Intergalactic Prophylactic"
you'll be safe from those universal STD's. |
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Ah, the "Windu Poser." Quite
the popular gent he was at the convention. "Hey, look at
me! I'm wearing a Jedi robe I bought at Toys R Us, I shaved my
head and I'm black. How can I not look just like
Samuel L. Jackson?" |
Here's "World's Shittiest
Wookie" aka "The Werewookie" Five minutes in
that rain and he might as well have been draped in a wet
mattress. |
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Then we have the portly "Imperial Officer
Hoveround." Last year, he went to the grand canyon on it
for the Empire. |
And last, but not least, the aptly named
"Pathetic Max Rebo Kid." The photo really writes its
own captions. |
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See what I mean? However,
despite all of the lamentable fan costumes present, the best aberration
was "Qui-Gum Jim" (a permutation of the name
bestowed Liam Neeson's character in Phantom Menace ). It was evident
that this fan was striving to look the part of the Jedi master who met his
death at the hands of Darth Maul. He had the cloak and lightsaber.
Apart from that, he was pure hick. Gaunt, with a mullet that ran
down to his shoulders and only two teeth present and accounted for.
Thus his name.
We first spotted Qui-Gum while waiting
in the half-mile long line to enter the convention on Saturday morning (I
shit you not - half a mile long). As we made our way to the front of
the line over a period of two hours, it began to feel like a death
march. After an hour in, the heavens opened up and dropped almost
two inches of water in twenty minutes, dropping the temperature to
40ºF. The four of us knew then that God truly does hate Star Wars
fans (Trekkie bastard). Luckily, we noticed Qui-Gum about fifty
virgins up. He stood grinning, his temperament
unmitigated by the deluge and slow-trudging queue. This image
lightened our spirits as we found unbridled humor in his stance. He
became our reason for walking the line. We kept craning our necks to
catch a glimpse of him as we moved forward. He led us to the
promised convention like the greasy-haired, inbred messiah he
was.
Naturally, we had to get a photo of
him. Thankfully, Liz volunteered to ask him if he would object to a
picture with her. Needless to say, he didn't (how could he? It
was the first time a female with substantial breasts had ever approached
him). I took the photograph and Liz returned to our group and
mentioned that Qui-Gum's hand had drifted surreptitiously near her ass
while he posed next to her. We shrugged it off and continued on our merry
ways, whoring ourselves for Lucas. Sure, we could have called
Qui-Gum out for trying to make a move on Jeff's girl, but the poor guy had
already been through the same misery as the rest of us. Why deprive
him of perfectly good masturbation material? Plus, if you bring an
actual, real-life girl to a science-fiction convention filled with lonely
men then it's bound to happen soon or later. Star Wars Concentration
Camp: it was our bane, our affliction, our own personal hell. Damned
if we wouldn't go through it again though.
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