PAPULA FALLS—A heep of irony was missed today as a local man attempting to enjoy a day of hockey and beer-drinking was vexed by a nearby fan convention.
“I just don’t get it,” says John Krenshaw, a 32-year-old mechanic and damn serious sports fan.
“What’s the appeal of spending all that time and money on crap like action figures and ray guns?” he continued, regardless of the fact that he’s paying hundreds of dollars to see grown men play a game.
Krenshaw, decked out in an official ball cap and authentic jersey retailing at $299.99 USD, watched in confusion as cosplayers filed past the stadium to enter the convention centre next door.
“Dressing like that is just lame—I’m actually embarrassed for them,” he said of the robe-clad, plastic light-sword wielding costumers hurriedly amassing into the den of nerdity.
“I mean, do they think they’re actually Jedis?” he continued, seemingly oblivious to the fact that he has the name of a professional athlete and übermensch stitched across his shoulder blades, despite his complete lack of comparable physical prowess.
“They do this every goddamn year?” he said, ritualistically drinking from a flagon of domestic lager—as has been done in blood-sports since those ancient eras co-opted by cosplayers themselves.
“They take this stuff so seriously—they’re nuts,” said Krenshaw, who will spend the bulk of tomorrow’s workday fervently attempting to vindicate his defeated team, defending them with citations of previous victories and insinuations of the opponents’ questionable heterosexuality.
The heavyset man then took a moment to adjust his pants as the elastic of his lucky boxers have loosened up over years of constant stadium-seat moistening.
Krenshaw, who used a large percentage of his meagre paycheck to buy Level 1 seats, sat in a crowd of other fervent fans, some of whom carried props and donned warpaint. All of this met with Krenshaw’s unmitigated approval.
“I tried watching anime ‘cause those chicks usually have huge racks, but then, you know, you’ve gotta watch and read,” he said, watching a small black dot being chased by a dozen men in the same manner cats chase the beam of a laser-pointer.
Krenshaw says he would never be caught dead having a pretend lightsaber battle with his friends, instead opting for a pretend ball game in the park while pretending to be baseball players with his buddies—and slowly getting pissed in public.
He then beer-belched, scratched his gut, and continued to complain aloud how impossible it was to hold a conversation with some of these socially awkward idigits.
“Have you ever tried to talk to these people?” Krenshaw bemoaned. “All they talk about is how the guy who played the gay alien is playing the faggot robot in this other gay movie and how the director got it all wrong.”
“How’s that going to help you in life?” he continued, despite having not but ten minutes ago rattled off to a complete stranger a stream-of-conscious pile of statistical diarrhea about player stats and coaching history.
Krenshaw spent the second intermission outside smoking and berating the conventioneers.
“You guys are a bunch of fags,” shouted Krenshaw after he had been watching hulking man-beasts shove each other into Plexiglas for 40 minutes.
“Bet you’ve never gotten laid in your life,” he teased a pair of Power Rangers, despite the fact that they were dating each other.
Krenshaw returned for the final period and his team’s inevitable loss, later driving home to weep alone and gorge on Doritos.
A.P. Gelineau has a PhD in social parallelology and has written the books We’re All F***ed Up Equally, All Your Religions Are Dumb and Here’s Why, as well as the children’s book Flick ‘Em, Don’t Lick ‘Em: The Booger Book, for some reason.