Discarded child-corpses: The yearly, post-Comicon heartbreak.

Well, my plan to do a series of daily posts about my Comicon adventures was thwarted by the fact that I didn’t do that.  My vision of several posts at the end of each day, not unlike my Supanova posts just didn’t pan out, as, unlike Supanova, I had almost no free time while conscious at Comicon, devoting every waking moment to either walking on feet that no longer had bones in them, just padding painfully along on water balloons of flesh filled with organic shrapnel and boiling hot blood, talking despite the absence of an audible voice, or pretend dancing to show just how unhappy I was by cleverly appearing to dance while filled with a burning rage.  You know the dance – sooner or later we all do it, just before we die.

Since I didn’t do the daily updates, I don’t think I’m going to try to recap every day.  No, instead I’ll just hurl all my various memories and musings on the adventures of the past few days into a delicious stew upon which you may all feast with these humorously oversized spoons I have supplied you with).  I hope that, by arranging these memories just so for you to frolic through, you will feel very much like you were there, nestled in my pants like a little newborn joey, along for the ride through my worst nightmares and most beautiful dreams come true.

HOLD ON, JOEY!
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The cheapest entry in the Turtles saga.

I was going to call this post ‘The Secret of the Ooze’, not so much in homage to  horrible Ninja Turtles movie, but because of the prevalence of juices that assaulted my senses yesterday.  I write this on Friday morning, with flashes of the day before still leaping out of the gloom of memory and slapping me hard in the face, eyes, and brains, and the juices, both bodily and manufactured, are what take center stage.

I’m not making this part up.  I know I’m famed for two things, making things up and for my get rich commercials where I have the two large breasted women on either side of me while I’m speeding about on my boat screaming at people on the shore about how they can get rich NOW if they just let me turn them into large breasted boat-women.  This is an example of neither of those things, so know that this is truth I am about to load into the chamber and fire into your atrophied minds.  Anyhow, here goes…

While walking in the crowd inside the convention yesterday, I smelled a man that managed to produce a body odor that was essentially the smell of exposed bowels and celery.  One man pulled this off.  The image that immediately came to mind was of celery, a thing I actually like the smell of, being served in a bowl made of human bowels.  The guy had a look on his face, a sly look with just a touch of fear, a look I find to be alarmingly common at conventions.  It’s a face that says “I wonder if anyone will know?”  Well…I knew.  I knew too much and now I can’t forget it.

And no, I’m not saying the guy smelled like he ate some celery, and then simply passed gas.  That would still be pretty unpleasant for me to walk into, but at least it would be easier to understand.  I’d walk behind him, recoil a bit, and then nod slowly, knowing that it all made sense overall, that it had its place in a universe of good and bad.  No, this…what I actually experienced was more Cronenbergian in its offering to the senses, or possibly something portrayed in a scene painted by Bosch, something one of his phantasmagoric demons would be holding up to one of the damned.  ”YOU LOVE CELERY, DON’T YOU?” The bird-headed man-thing would be screeching to some naked, tortured bastard who indeed loves celery, the man’s hand reaching out, but not committing to grabbing any of the delicious looking stuff sitting in the bowl of HUMAN BOWEL.  The man then falls to his knees and just curses every decision he made in his life that led him to this terrible fate (The bird man just looks weirded out because he’s the one nice demon in hell and he actually likes celery bowel bowls and was just trying to do something decent for someone).

Bowelery?

So there was that.  The whole day was full of stench nebulas ( my space traveler name) but that one took the cake, ladies and gents.  A spongy, moist cake that someone used to sop up the sweat of thousands of hot fans roasting in the sun.  Later, the juices were spewing from severed heads and mutilated breasts at a Gwar show.  ”I’m going to sleep in this shit tonight!” I heard a girl exclaim breathlessly as I walked out.  I imagined her, all dyed purple and blue and red from all the fluids being launched about during the show, her hair slicked stuck to her forehead, a dopey grin on her face as she said it.  I’m not sure that that’s what she actually looked like, as I only overheard it and didn’t see her, but I loved the visual so much that I dared not turn to see that it was just yet another girl on the streets covered in actual shit and ecstatic about it.

All in all, the day was a pleasant one, aside from the smells.  The signings were pretty mellow, with only one person showing up in various different disguises, getting back in the “line” to get things signed and ask questions about this or that.

I kept telling people that the four page story of mine in the Strange Eggs book that just came out was the best story, but I haven’t actually read the book yet, so I was lying.  I lied a lot that day, and felt terrible about it each time the people bought the book based on my review.  Today, Friday,  I will only tell the truth.

I will tell them that it’s the best story in the world.

Alright.  Well, I have to start getting ready for today’s adventures.  I promise the post about today won’t be as scatological as this one was.  It wasn’t my intent to make it such a fragrant thing, you know.  S’just how the day went, but today will be all pie and candy and laundry fresh from the dryer.

I hope.