You know you're somewhere around Comic-Con International when a group of Stormtroopers in full body armor march by you like you're aboard the Death Star. But when you realize that the other attendees around you walk by them like it's the most normal thing in the world, you know you're actually at Comic-Con International.
You also know you've arrived when the first wave of body odor hits your nose, zipping you straight back to reality faster than Spock from "Star Trek" can say, "Please, Captain, not in front of the Klingons."
Already knowing to expect the horrible smell from years of attending the convention, I think my brain decided to have a momentary lapse of information-registering (better known as remembering) had bad the stench gets.
Not everybody emanates the foul, human smell that reeks of "Hey, person behind me! I haven't taken a shower in three days and there's probably a planet of lice nesting in the crevices of my body!" It mostly comes from two types of guys.
The first type is the one wearing his favorite faded T-shirt, paired with khaki shorts and beat-up sneakers. Image to imagine: Comic Book Guy from "The Simpsons" but this type of guy comes in all shapes, sizes and of course, stenches.
I suspect that he reeks the way he does because he cannot afford to miss a beat at the Con, and so he doesn't go back to his hotel room to change his clothes. Maybe he even thinks it's sexy, because he's become so immune to his own body odor that he starts mistaking it for cologne.
Remember Stewie from "Family Guy?" When he isn't frowning, he sort of looks like a pleasant baby, right? (Just nod your head.) But then when he launches into his must-get-rid-of-Lois mode, you find out that you've been deceived by an otherwise innocent-looking baby in a red jumpsuit - that's what the second type of guy is like.
From afar, he looks like he maintains proper hygiene. But his good looks and vice are betrayed by, you guessed it, the awful smell escaping from his underarms.
I don't even know what hurts more: me having to hold my breath until it feels as if my lungs are on fire, or realizing that for every time I come across this type of guy, my chances of finding Mr. Right are reduced by one.
There are girls to blame, too. You have to be careful though. It's often difficult to tell them apart, because these kinds of girl almost always look like Comic Book Guy too. I mean that in the least offensive way possible. If I were you, I'd hold off on addressing them "Miss" or "Sir" because the "Miss" could easily be a "Sir" and the "Sir" could easily be a "Miss."
I speak from an unfortunate event. I'm still suffering from the nightmares. There was a guy, though, who was alert enough to know that he did stink. While standing in line, he reached into his backpack and produced a big stick of deodorant. Raising his arm as high as it could go to offer his pits full coverage, he hurriedly swiped three layers of the deodorant into one pit and did the same thing to the other side.
I would have certainly lauded his actions and intentions had it not been for him standing a mere three inches away from me. Three inches ladies and gentlemen. Three.
But hey, having to put up with the body odors was only a small price to pay for the extremely great time I had at this year's Comic-Con, and I'd gladly tolerate again next year, knowing that the sacrifice is 100 percent worth it for the convention.
I just need to start practicing how to hold my breath longer, that's all.
-Kathryn Danganan is a communication senior.
-This column does not necessarily reflect the opinion of The Daily Aztec.
Be the first to comment on this article!