Dressed Up Handsome And Not Pounded Because Cosplay Is Not Consent - (Classic Tingler Revisited)

HELLO BUCKAROOS its your bud chuck here comin to you from SEATTLE COMIC CON. it is a beautiful day up here as the rain clouds part for a weekend of fun. i suspect it is my glowing trot that has brought this on but who knows maybe it is just regular weather patterns that would also make a lot of sense.

anyway seattle comic con is very fun, had a good time at the panel yesterday and today i am trotting with my bud TJ KLUNE for a discussion BUCKAROO TO BUCKAROO. i have always loved pacific northwest and personally spent a lot of time in seattle so it is always a treat to come back here and trot around in the trees with my eyes peeled for bigfeet

for whatever reason i am also VERY POPULAR HERE i suppose these days i am popular a lot of places but dang cant walk ten feet in the old convention center without being stopped by a buckaroo. this is not complaint it is actually a celebration it is very nice and if you ever see chuck trotting down the street SAY HI

anyway i thought that it would be a great day for a CONVENTION BASED TINGLER so today we are trotting out the classic no sex tingler name of DRESSED UP HANDSOME AND NOT POUNDED BECAUSE COSPLAY IS NOT CONSENT. LETS TROT

Clippo loves science fiction, fantasy and comic books, but he’s never managed to make it to a convention; until now. This weekend, Clippo and his friend Jorn are headed to Tinglecon, dressed up real handsome and excited to show off their new outfits.

But when someone approaches Clippo inappropriately, security is quickly called. With the T-Rex head of security as his guide, Clippo has a front row seat in observing the world of self-entitled morons who think cosplay is consent. Clippo witness’s a variety of tests that prove time and time again, these idiotic men have no idea what they’re talking about.

Is there a way to get through to these disgusting guys? Or is the real answer that responsibility to change lies squarely on themselves?

This important tale is 4,100 words of personal discovery with absolutely no sex because cosplay is not an invitation.

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DRESSED UP HANDSOME AND NOT POUNDED BECAUSE COSPLAY IS NOT CONSENT

By Chuck Tingle

When I was growing up, it seemed everything I cared about just put a huge target on my back for bullies and scoundrels. While other kids were dressing up in the jerseys of their favorite sports hero, I was wearing the uniform of my favorite star fleet captain. I read graphic novels and played videogames, calling a comic shop on the corner my home away from home. I spent way too much time there, sometimes buying playing cards or models, but mostly just hanging out with the few like minded folks in town who seemed to understand me.

         As I got older, however, a strange thing started to happen. Instead of my interests becoming harder and harder to enjoy, they’ve only blossomed into a worldwide phenomenon. Geek culture has transitioned from a tiny sliver of the popular consciousness, to an enormous economic juggernaut across every industry. Instead of being the only guy who cares when my favorite superhero finally make their way across the big screen, I’m part of the tidal wave of fans all struggling to find tickets on opening night.

         For some people in my position, this has been a frustrating journey, but I don’t mind at all. While I can understand the anger that comes with being ostracized for your interests, and then those interests becoming mainstream, I’m appreciative of the fact that I’m getting more exciting new content than ever. If others are late in joining the pack that realizes superheroes are fun and space travel is fascinating, then so be it.

         Despite the rapid growth of this culture I love, I’m still in the unfortunate position of not being about to enjoy it much. With age comes responsibility, and a while I’d love to hang out at that old comic shop on the corner every day, I’ve gotta go to work.

         It’s more than a little overwhelming trying to carve out time for the things that I enjoy. Working in a stuffy office building from nine to five will chew you up and spit you out, and by the time Friday finally rolls around I’m just too tired to do much of anything.

         This is why my initial reaction is a hard pass when my friend, Jorn, ask if I want to head into the city this weekend.

         “I’m just too tired,” I offer, sizzling hot plates of food sitting between us as we lounge in our favorite booth at the local diner. “I’ve been staying late at the office all week. I don’t know if I’m up for a crazy weekend.”

         “I didn’t even tell you what we’ll be doing there!” my friend replies with a laugh.

         I roll my eyes. “Fine. What’s this little plan of yours?”

         “Tinglecon,” Jorn offers, the single word rolling off his tongue and hovering brilliantly in the air before him.

         “Oh my god,” I gasp, my entire demeanor suddenly shifting.

         Tinglecon is a convention of like-minded folks who gather once a year in celebration of all things science fiction and fantasy that make you tingle with delight. They’ve had incredible panels and guest appearances in the past, but the convention travels around the country and has never once been close enough to make the trip worth it. There were rumors bubbling up about a nearby appearance of the convention, but I’d completely forgotten until just this moment.

         “It’s really happening?” I question.

         Jorn nods. “This weekend.”
         “Is it too late to get tickets?” I stammer.

         Jorn smiles mischievously. “It depends on if you have a friend who knew you’d wanna go.” Jorn reaches into the bag settled next to his chair and pulls forth two tickets, placing them on the table between us so that I can bask in their glory. “Now, if you don’t want one then I can certainly find someone else,” my friend continues, “but I figured you’d want the first option.”

         I’m overflowing with excitement now, barely able to contain myself. “Of course I’ll go!” I cry out, springing up from my seat and wrapping my arms around my friend. “Thank you so much. I can’t fucking wait.”

         “You’re welcome, Clippo,” Jorn replies with a laugh. “Now all we need to do is figure out what we’re wearing.”

         The second I hear this sentence my excitement kicks into overdrive. I’d completely forgotten about the part where we get to dress up as our favorite characters, arriving in style after crafting the perfect outfit. My mind is already flooded with various options, from a living corn to a bigfoot doctor lawyer.

         “Who are you going as?” I question.

         Jorn smiles playfully. “I was thinking about going as Gaygent Brontosaurus.

         My eyes go wide at the mention of this notorious, prehistoric super spy. “That’s a sexy outfit. Very sophisticated.”

         “Well, that’s my style,” Jorn replies with a laugh.

         I’m not exactly sure which way I want to go with my costume, but upon hearing my friend’s choice I immediately start pushing things in a sexy and suave direction. There are just so many options to choose from.

         Suddenly, it hits me.

         “I’ll go as Darth Bater,” I finally announce, landing on my favorite character from the hit film, Butt Wars.

         Jorn nods in appreciation of my choice. “We’re gonna have the best time ever.”
        

As we drive towards the convention center I can feel my heart thumping harder and harder within my chest. On one hand, I’m excited, but on the other hand, I’m incredibly nervous. While I’m absolutely in love with my Darth Bater outfit, my chest and abs are completely exposed.

         Don’t get me wrong, I’m a guy who’s proud of my body and have been prone to show it off, but right now I feel a little frightened by the prospect of revealing my bare skin to these thousands and thousands of convention goers.

         Jorn notices the awkward look on my face from his position in the driver’s seat. “Everything okay?” my friend asks.

         I nod. “I’m just… a little nervous.”

         “What’s up?”

         I open my coat a bit to expose my bare abs. “Are you sure it’s not too revealing?”

         My friend considers this question for a moment. “Well, it’s not too revealing for me, but it’s not my decision. To be frank, it’s not anyone’s decision but your own. How do you feel about it?”

         “I love the costume,” I tell him, confident in my answer. “And even though it shows a lot of skin, I like that it’s accurate to his outfit in Rogue Buns.”

         “It’s very cool,” Jorn agrees. “Well, if that’s the case, then I don’t think you’ve got anything to worry about. You look great and you did a really good job on your costume. If you feel like coming back to the car and changing into something else, though, just let me know and we’ll do it.”
         Never before have I been so thankful for my friend, and his words immediately put me at ease. Strangely enough, I suddenly find myself perfectly comfortable in my own skin thanks to the fact that I know we’ve got an escape route.

         Eventually, we find parking just a few short blocks away from the convention center and pull into an empty spot. We hand the lot attendant his outrageous fee and then begin our trek down the sidewalk, immediately joined by a horde of other convention attendees.

         “Tinglecon!” someone cries out. “Let’s do this! Woo!”

         Various other walkers around us erupt with similar hollers of jubilation.

         The longer we exist in this horde of other fans, the more at ease I become. Everyone is having a great time, and we haven’t even arrived at the convention center yet. It feels like these are my people.

         I feel safe.

         The other encouraging thing is, for as skimpy as the outfits Jorn and me are wearing, there are plenty of others showing off an equal amount of skin.

         “This is great,” is all I can manage to say, the words rolling out of my mouth softly as a mighty sense of community builds and builds within.

         Soon, the convention center comes into view, the crowd around us growing exponentially larger as we approach the front gate.

         “Here we go!” I cry out as me and Jorn begin to make our way into the tightly packed gathering.

         It takes a while but eventually we manage to squeeze through, show our tickets, and arrive on the other side of the security gate. Immediately, I find myself overwhelmed with the sights and sounds of nerd fandom, booths and displays stretching out as far as the eye can see in every direction.

         I can’t wait to dive in, but before we get started there’s something that needs to be addressed.

         “You go ahead,” I instruct my friend. “I’ve gotta grab some food first, I’m starving.”

         Jorn nods. “I’ll meet you at the Buttman booth in an hour,” he offers.

         We wave goodbye and then split paths, Jorn heading deeper into the convention center while I make a sudden right and begin my journey towards the dining hall.

         I arrive and order a simple slice of pizza, not wanting to waste to much time on this meal, then find a seat at an empty folding table. I quickly dive in, scarfing the food down until someone abruptly stops me in my tracks by sitting in the chair next to me.

         I glance over that them, melted cheese dangling from my mouth.

         “Hey,” the guy blurts, a reasonably handsome man dressed as a robot from some television show that I’m not familiar with.

         “Hi,” is all that I can think to respond.

         There’s something a little strange about the way this guy is approaching me, acting as though he’s known me for years and I just happen to have forgotten his name.

         “Do I know you?” I finally question.

         “You can get to know me,” the man offers in an unexpected reply.

         The second the guy says this, a jolt of fear erupts through my body. To him, it’s just another day at Tinglecon, but to me this is a moment I’ll probably never forget. While the joy and excitement of this morning had given me to confidence to wear an outfit I might otherwise be uncomfortable in, I’m suddenly reminded of just how exposed I really am.

         The man reaches out to touch my bare abs. His fingers creep closer and closer to my body as I freeze in a state of shock, but just as he’s about to reach me I finally force out a single word, blurting it forth at the top of my lungs.

         “Stop!” I cry loudly.

         Immediately, the whole dining hall falls silent, the crowd freezing as they turn to look in our direction. The man who was reaching out to touch me has halted abruptly, his fingers hovering in the air just inches away from my skin. He wears a confused look on his face, not quite sure what’s happening.

         “What the fuck are you doing?” I stammer.

         “Just trying to touch you,” he replies in a strange daze. I can tell that this man is not very smart, the words falling from his mouth in an empty mumble.

         “What made you think you could do that?” I question.

         “Your outfit,” the man replies, a long strand of drool dangling from the corner of his lips.

         Before I can ask him any more questions, a team of uniformed security guards rushes over, grabbing the man and hoisting him to his feet roughly.

         “We’re sorry about that,” the main security guard offers, a handsome T-Rex with rugged good looks and a sharp-toothed smile. This guard is slightly more festive than the rest, sporting a beautifully crafted superhero costume.

         I read the dinosaur’s nametag quickly. “Thanks, Gorty,” I reply, struggling to maintain eye contact as the man reaching out for me is drug away behind him. “What was the deal with that guy?”

         Gorty shakes his head. “It’s not just that guy, you’d be surprised how common this kind of thing is.”

         “What kind of thing?” I continue.

         “Men who think they have the right to touch someone or make rude comments just because they see another person dressed up in a costume they find attractive,” Gorty continues. “It’s an epidemic, really.”

         “Well, that sucks,” I reply.

         The handsome dinosaur nods. “We’re out here on patrol, doing what we can. There’s just a lot of this to deal with and we’re stretched a little thin.”

         “What kind of guy would do something like that?” I continue.

         Gorty takes a deep breath and then lets it out slowly. “Well, the men who assume someone else’s outfit is a personal invitation to them come from all walks of life, but there is one common thread that ties them all together.”

         “What’s that?” I question, overflowing with curiosity.

         “They’re all fucking idiots,” the prehistoric creature informs me flatly.

         I suppose this makes sense.

         Apparently, Gorty can tell from my expression that I’m not entirely satisfied with this answer. “You wanna come downstairs and watch the process?”

         I’m not exactly sure what process my new dinosaur friend is talking about, but I’m excited to learn.

         “Sure,” I reply with a nod.

         Soon enough, Gorty is leading me through a nondescript door that places us in an empty white hallway, a far cry from the other hustling, bustling areas of this convention center. We’re behind the scenes now, delving deeper and deeper into the mysterious world that keeps these huge gatherings organized and moving forward.

         Eventually, we come to a door and push through it, finding ourselves in a small room with a few of the other security guards. There’s a large window that faces yet another room, in which the man who tried to touch me sits alone at a table.

         “Right now, we’re trying to determine if there’s any hope for him, or if he’s just going to be a self-entitled moron for the rest of his life,” whispers Gorty.

         I realize quickly that what I’m looking through is an enormous pane of one-way glass. The man can’t see us watching.

         A scientist in a long white lab coat enters the room before us, holding something oblong and yellow in his hand. The scientist places this yellow item on the table before his handsy subject, who stares at it blankly.

         From here, I can now see that the object is a banana is dressed in tiny slack and a long sleeve shirt, completely covered up.

         “Now, you are not to eat this banana,” the scientist instructs.

         The handsy man nods with understanding, although it’s hard to tell how much he truly comprehends based on his facial expression.

         “You can do whatever you want when I’m gone, except for eating this banana,” the scientist continues, making everything as clear as possible.

         The man nods again, and with that, the scientist leaves.

         Now the handsy man is sitting alone with his fully clothed banana.

         From our own room behind the one-way glass, the security guards and me watch with rapt attention, curious to see what this idiotic guy will do now that he’s alone with the banana.

         The answer, however, isn’t all that exciting, because the man does absolutely nothing.

         Eventually, the scientist returns to the room, walking over to the table and collecting his uneaten banana. He then produces a second banana from his long lab coat, only this one is wearing nothing but a tiny pair of skimpy banana shorts.

         “Alright, thank you for not eating the last banana, you did a good job,” the scientist begins. “I’m gonna leave you with this new banana. Whatever you do, don’t eat it.”

         The scientist abruptly turns again and leaves the room once more.

         Almost immediately, the handsy man’s demeanor has shifted. He’s staring at the exposed yellow fruit with a powerful intensity in his eyes, a singular focus unlike anything I’ve ever seen.

         It only takes a matter of seconds before the man reaches out and attempts to grab ahold of this delicious food.

         “Ah!” he suddenly cries out, pulling back his hand and shaking it in the air, a futile maneuver that he hopes will relieve the slightest bit of pain.

         “What’s happening?” I lean over to ask Gorty, whispering the words under my breath.

         “That banana contains an electric shock unit,” my new friend explains. “Every time someone touches it, the voltage increases.”

         We watch as the handsy man continues to reach out and make his best attempt at grabbing the scantly clad banana that sits before him. Each and every time the man is seriously injured, to the point that smoke begins drifting up from his fingertips.

         Eventually, security guards are forced to rush in and intervene before the handsy man seriously hurts himself.

         “You see,” Gorty offers. “They’re all utter morons that have no understanding of personal space.”

         “So what’s gonna happen with him?” I question.

         “Well, he won’t be coming back to Tinglecon any time soon,” Gorty replies.

         The two of us head out into the brilliant white hallway once more and continue our journey.

         “So what happens if the subject can be rehabilitated?” I question.

         Gorty seems a little upset by this query, clearly frustrated. “We’re trying our best to figure something out,” the dinosaur explains, “but the results have been disappointing, to say the least. Our scientists have come up with several methods, but most of the subjects are just too self-centered for them to take.”

         We walk in silence for a moment before Gorty finally continues with another suggestion.

         “You want to see?” the T-Rex security guard asks.

         “Sure!” I reply, thankful for an even deeper look at the inner workings of Tinglecon.

         We walk a little farther and then eventually push through another non-descript door, revealing a massive room full of long tables and folding chairs. Scientists are sitting across from a broad selection of men, asking them questions and then jotting their answers down on pads of paper. There must be at least a hundred subjects being monitored.

         “Each one of these scientists is explaining why the subject can’t just go up and grab someone without their consent,” Gorty informs me.  “Regardless of how they’re dressed.”
         “It seems simple enough,” I reply.

         Gorty nods. “It is, other than the fact that these guys are fucking idiots.”
         The handsome T-Rex begins to lead me through the crowd, walking down the aisles and aisles of men as we listen in on their conversations.

         “But what if he’s dressed as a mummy racecar?” one of the subjects is questioning. “That means he probably wants me to grab him.”

         “Why would you think that means he wants to be grabbed by you?” the scientist question. “It’s just an outfit.”

         “Because mummy racecars are hot,” the subject continues.

         The scientist jots downs a few notes. “Nope, that’s incorrect. Someone’s attire is never an invitation for unwanted attention. Can you repeat that back to me?”

         “Someone… someone’s attire… some…” the subject begins to stammer, struggling to force the words out of his mouth, but the sentence simply refusing to form.

         The scientist conducting this interview just glances back over his shoulder at us and shakes his head, clearly frustrated by the results.

         Gorty leads us further down the aisle. “As you can see, we’re at a bit of a road block with the majority of our subjects. Their feeble minds simply cannot seem to grasp even the most basic concepts that we present to them.”

         Suddenly, I freeze. An icy bolt stabs into my heart, stopping me in my tracks as a familiar face appears at one of the tables before me. It’s Jorn.

         “Oh my god,” I blurt, nearly stumbling over backwards from the shock.

         “What is it?” Gorty questions.

         “That’s my friend,” I offer, pointing.

         I run over to the table, interrupting their session in a state of utter panic. “Jorn, please tell me this is some kind of mistake,” I blurt. “You’re not really here for what it looks like, are you?”

         My friend just shrugs.

         “You know this man?” the scientist running Jorn’s questions asks me.

         I nod. “I do.”

         “Well, I think he might be a lost cause at this point. Nothing seems to get through to him,” the scientist continues.

         I just stare at my friend, or former friend, in utter disappointment, not quite sure how to handle the feeling of heartbreak that creeps its way through my body.

         The scientist shows me the top page on his clipboard, a long series of questions that are almost entirely marked with incorrect answers.

         I let out a long sigh. “Dammit,” is all that I can think to say.

         “I don’t even get what the problem is!” Jorn protests. “The guy was wearing a unicorn butt cops outfit. Obviously, he wanted to be grabbed!”

         I throw up my hands in frustration, letting loose with an angry cry the fills the room. “What the hell is wrong with you? How is it so hard to understand that cosplay is not consent?”

         The second these words leave my lips I notice something strange and powerful flicker across Jorn’s face, a microscopic expression of acknowledgement that had been completely absent from all the other subjects.

         “Wait a minute. What was that?” the scientist in charge of Jorn blurts out, jotting down a few more things on his notepad.

         The scientist stands up and waves me towards his chair, which sits directly across from Jorn.

         “Please, keep talking,” the scientist says. “I’ll observe.”

         I lean forward, looking my friend deep in the eyes and trying my best to connect with him on some basic, primal level. “Do you understand why you’re here?” I question.

         “Because the guy in the unicorn butt cops outfit asked me to grab him,” replies Jorn.

         I shake my head immediately. “No. He didn’t ask you to do that. Did you hear him ask you?”

         My friend shakes his head. “Not with words.”

         “Then how did he ask you?” I continue.

         “With what he was wearing,” Jorn continues.

         “That’s not real,” I inform Jorn bluntly. “You fucking moron. That’s not real.”

         My friend just stares at me blankly, but seconds later another strange expression of recognition crosses his face.

         “What you did is not good,” I explain. “In fact, it’s assault. You can’t just go around grabbing people like that, regardless of what they’re wearing.”

         “I can’t?” Jorn asks, looking more and more distraught.

         Behind me, Gorty and the scientist are growing with excitement, clearly seeing a kind of progress that is rarely witnessed.

         “No, you can’t,” I reply.

         Jorn furrows his brow, clearly shaken up but this conversation. “Damn, I really messed up. Huh?”

         “You did,” I confirm with a nod.

         “I’m sorry,” Jorn offers.

         I don’t reply.

         “Whoa!” the scientist suddenly interrupts, tapping me on the shoulder. “This is remarkable. Come with us for a moment.”

         I stand as Gorty and the scientist pull me aside, locked in a huddle now as we speak in hushed, yet excited, tones.

         “I can’t believe it,” the scientist begins, the words billowing out of his mouth in rapid succession. “We’ve tried to explain it to these guys in so many different ways that we forget the most important variable. We forget to change who was doing the explaining. It appears that if a friend of the subject steps in and tells them what they’re doing isn’t cool, then the subject is significantly more likely to change.”

         I glance back over at Jorn, who is now staring off in complete silence. He seems very upset with himself.

         “It appears that a powerful first step is for friends to let other friend know when they’re acting like self-entitled pricks,” the scientist continues. “It’s not much, but it’s a start.”

         Gorty is clearly thrilled with this news, turning to me with a huge smile plastered across this face. “This is amazing!” the dinosaur blurts. “Maybe with a little time we can integrate your friend Jorn back into society!”

         I consider the head security guard’s words for a moment, mulling them over while I struggle with the variety of emotions that flood through my body, the feelings mixing together like a strange and unexpected cocktail.

         I take a deep breath and then let it out slowly, centering myself.

         “Don’t get me wrong, that’s good news,” I finally reply, “but Jorn’s responsible for himself. I’ll tell my friends when they’re being jerks, but I’m more interested in doing that before they act, not after.”

         “I’m not quite sure what you mean,” Gorty continues.

         “I mean… it’s nice that you’ve learned friends can break through to these people, but Jorn’s not my friend anymore. It’s okay if other folks want to pull their buddies out of the swamp, but I want to move on, and that’s my choice. The person responsible for Jorn’s actions is Jorn.”

         With that, I turn around and begin to make my way back to the convention hall. I’m thankful that Gorty and the scientists have found a solution, but right now I deserve to have some fun. I’m not interested in spending this weekend teaching jerks how to behave, I’m interested in treating myself to a good time, surrounded by good people, and proving love in my own way.

         At the end of the day, what I do with my time, and my body, is up to me.