Oh, You. Tee-Hee

I was lucky enough to be asked to work a convention by my employer many years back. Let me rephrase that… My job paid for me to go to New Orleans and get properly fucked up in exchange for standing around a booth for 8 hours.

Now, I don’t know if you’ve ever had the “pleasure” to work a convention of any sort, but it’s kind of a sad affair when you get right down to it. It’s mostly guys, socially awkward, middle aged guys. Sales guys with bad hair and some sort of chip on their shoulder… They come to a town to peddle their crap and pretend they’re worldly by getting thoroughly pissed in the local “Margaritaville” or whatever tacky and crappy theme bar exists in its vacuous place.

And no, I’m not any better. My first night out in the French Quarter I had a Hand Grenade (if you’ve never had one, I cautiously advise it (Lik-M-Aid and Everclear baby, Lik-M-Aid and Everclear), 3 Hurricanes and one shot of Jagermeister administered to me by an adorable young woman with a test tube in her mouth. Was I drunk? Well, if drunk means thinking that I could work a full day after an hour and a half of sleep and 86 ounces of high octane alcohol sitting in my belly, then yes, I was drunk.

Rest assured that the following day was an ugly one. But none of this is the point. The point is that at the convention itself, many of the hundreds of supplier booths there were attention grabbing devices such flashing lights, balloon creatures that jumped around and booth floozies.

Booth floozies are model type women, usually scantily clad, that stand outside the booths to attract these sad and lonely men in with the hopes that if they show any interest in the products, that these healthy young lasses will blow them behind the convention center.

As I stumbled past a plethora of them, a gaggle of booth floozies if you will, hung-over like a kangaroo mouse hit with a tranquilizer dart meant for a rhino, trying my hardest to keep my burning bile down as I blindly searched out a truly shitty cup of coffee, these ladies did not even give me a sympathetic smile. I mean they’ll practically lap dance a 50 year old, mole covered, board operator from an AM station in Casper Wyoming, but not even a knowing nod towards a seriously self-abused yours truly.

That’s fine, that’s not my problem, that’s not my issue. I don’t even particularly have an issue with B.F.’s themselves, I mean if you’re able to make a healthy living by being pretty and having a nice rack, absolutely, more power to you. My problem is these moronic, idiot guys who fall for such a dipshit ploy. I mean these women should have the word “Obvious” stretched across their ample tits. Seriously, it gives me the creeps that there are many guys at conventions all over the country, all the time, who feign interest in some cheesy company’s crappy gear in order to spend some time near a pretty woman.