New York City. The big leagues. Time to take your shit-eaten-country-boy-backwoods-naïveté and chuck it out the mother fuckin’ window, sissy boy.
You show up wide-eyed and in awe, allowing the city's icy, systematic, metaphorical zipper teeth of aggression to interlock effortlessly over your tracing-paper-thin metaphorical dick skin of timidness; forming a weave of metal and flesh so perfect that you don't know if it wasn't that way to begin with, but you definitely know you're not hungry anymore. The city doesn't have time to wait on you as you delicately try to reverse the situation, in between bouts of dry heaving and praying to a god that isn't listening. The scar left behind is a brutal reminder of your time in the 'Big Apple'.
No. Not in this town. Not NYC. There will not be any handholding here. Unless, of course, you go to the urinal.
Growing up, I had always assumed that New York City was a cross between an open-air prison, spanning a thousand city blocks, and a landfill, an observation formed from watching too many movies (Escape From New York, The Warriors, Woody Allen films). Then Reagan left office, George Bush took over (on a platform of eradicating the 80s), and the rest is history. Disappointingly, I arrived to what would only be classified as 'USED to be an open-air prison crossed with a landfill'
I'd like to think that the purpose of this trip was pleasure; a trip to our nation's cultural capital to rub elbows with the country's elite and eat rat masquerading as lamb-ish from a food cart. However, it was anything but, as I was there to continue my unending mission to find The Single Worst Thing For Sale™: NYCC 2012 Edition!
Before we get to the pictures, I just have one question: Do you like to party?
Somewhere in 1984 there is a seven year old not receiving the proper party head equipment as his dad refuses to open these in the hopes that decades later, he can sell them at a convention for seven American dollars. The plates are a little too matchy-matchy for my taste. I would have went with something a little more tasteful; perhaps a picture of Jabba's face when Leia strangles him. But I digress.
If you're anything like me, then you had a childhood growing up. Part of my idiosyncratic childhood consisted of an unwavering love of Masters of the Universe, as well as an irrational fear of losing the lid to the toothpaste. Sometimes fate puts you on a path with destiny.
I'd like to add that I'm not against novelty sized tubes of toothpaste either. Six feet of Adam of Eternia flavored, cavity fighting protection.
I really wanted to buy this next item, mostly because A) Michael Jackson, and B) they use the same stock photo of him twice on the front of the package.
Unfortunately, when I went back to the booth later in the con to make the purchase, the radio was nowhere to be found; some other enterprising quarterly blogger must have beat me to the punch. It's not always sunshine and rainbows with TSWTFS™. Sometimes good people get hurt.
At any other lesser con, any of these items would have easily walked away with the coveted TSWTFS™ award (a prize package that includes: 3 loose Newports, and a 5 dollar gas card)
But I was fortunate enough to stumble on…well I'm not sure exactly what this is. I only know that for the next four hours I spoke in a forgotten language and woke up the next day bleeding from the ears.
Hover over for nightmares.
Unlike most of the items I find, I'm at a complete loss on actual details. I don't know what this is, I don't know how much it was, I don't know if it was even for sale, I don't know if it was sent back in time to kill me, I don't know why ever since touching it that my dreams are re-runs of Joanie Loves Chachi, and, most importantly, I don't know why I didn't buy it.
I do know this: Mystery Toy X, you are The Single Worst Thing For Sale™: NYCC 2012!