Talking to Fangirls:
Being a fangirl in a fanboy’s world, I have experienced a lot of, well, unfortunate and embarrassing displays of “admiration.” I get it. I’m a rarity. Not a lot of chicks walk into the comic book store or make obscure references to Batman villains at work. But some fanboys act like they have never, ever been in contact with a woman before, and this concerns me because they make some of the dumbest fucking assumptions about me, and what I may know and care about.
I’m gonna help you guys out. Here is how not to talk to a fangirl, so you won’t verbally faceplant like these guys did.
Rule #1: Don’t assume that because you have the penis, that you are a bigger fan than me.
This is the quickest way to piss me the fuck off. It’s openly sexist. You are trying to impress me with news that happened months ago, because I, a girl, obviously would not be keeping up with the comings and goings of my own obsession. What the fuck? I get that if you had just met someone, you might throw out a few facts to see how they react, to see if they are as up to speed as you, but don’t insult their intelligence.
The biggest incident concerning this happened just a few months ago. My comic book store in Knoxville was closing (Triad Comics, R.I.P.), and this dude was trying to impress me with his Star Wars knowledge. Death Troopers had come out the day before, and he had the fucking nerve to ask me if I had heard of it. Yea, fucker, I had, like way fucking back in February 2009, when it had been announced. It was a fucking Star Wars novel combining zombies with Han and Chewie on a prison barge, how could I let that kind of holy geekery slip past me! It was all any nerd could talk about that week! I would have had to have been deaf and blind not to have at least heard of it, and there I was, holding my stack of Star Wars comics and a Tag & Bink trade paperback, and he still assumed I was a casual fan! So fuck you! Fuck you for assuming I didn’t know my shit, and for still going on and on about it even after I told you, “Yes, I know what it is,” and even explaining that I hadn’t bought it yet because I didn’t have the money for a hardback! You still had to go on like I didn’t know what it was about, like I was just yes-ing you or buying it just because it said “Star Wars” on the cover! FUCK YOU!!!
Rule #2: Don’t try to be a pimp. We’re too smart for that.
Before Triad opened, I had to go to this creepy comic book store called, we’ll say, “Collector’s Hell”. At the time, the owner, who we will call “Silent Bob,” had this guy working there who was kind of like “Jay” because he thought he was a smooth pimp, who loved the pussy, and Tubby there, was his fat man servant. For those of you who don’t get the reference, that was a line from Jay & Silent Bob Strike Back. Anyway, “Jay” was the kind of nerd who thought he was a fucking pimp, and he loved it when my nerdy, underage self would come in. He was pathetic, and would try to impress me with stuff even a sheltered, 16-year-old knew was bullshit. I always wondered if he would ever realize how gross and sad he was, a thirty-something year old man, hitting on a teenager, always asking me when I was going to turn eighteen. Then years later, after “Jay” had left the store, I asked “Silent Bob” if he needed any help in the summer, since I felt relatively safe around a man who only ever said “Hello,” and “Here’s your change.” He said “Yea, I can think of a few positions that you would be good at,” in a tone that told me he wasn’t talking about filing the back issues or organizing the posters. I never went back. Epic fail, guys.
What is it that Jay’s shoulder angel said in Jay and Silent Bob Strike Back when he was gonna pull his dick out to impress Justice? Oh, yea. “That’s it, boy, put the dick down. You gotta go from the heart, yo. No little perv bullshit’s gonna work for this one.”
Exactly.
Rule #3: Don’t tell me you’ve met celebrities known for never doing the convention circuit. I know you are full of shit.
“Jay” once told me he met Harrison Ford at a Star Wars convention in Nashville. Bitch, please. Do I even have to explain to any of you how far-fetched that is? Probably not.
About six months ago, one of my fangirl friends and I went into Triad, and I suppose we left ourselves open to conversation because we bust in there ranting about how there’s hyperspace travel, air speeders, and other complex technologies in the Star Wars prequels, but evidently no effective birth control. There was no doubt that we were Star Wars fangirls. So this 50-year-old man starts macking on us, telling us about his $10,000 Star Wars collection and how he met Ewan McGregor at Celebration II. Obviously he didn’t know who he was messing with. 1) I was at that convention. The closest Ewan McGregor got to it was a video he and George were in that played during the opening ceremony where they thanked everyone for coming. They were a safe distance of 2,000 miles away. 2) If Ewan had been at CII, I would have sensed it through the Force. My vagina would have started to emit a sonar-like pulse and immediately started honing in on his location. Once his position was confirmed, my pussy would have sent his coordinates to the GPS trackers in my nipples, which would have locked onto his location. I like to imagine my nipples emitting a “Boop, boop, boop” noise during all of this. God help the volunteer 501st trooper who would have stood in the way of my horny, 16-year-old self. 3) Ewan McGregor has never been to any convention, you fucking asshole.
Rule #4: Just be yourself.
Don’t put on airs to talk to us. We won’t do it for you. You’re much more attractive when we’re not having to wade through a sea of bullshit to find about if you are worth our time or not.
Whew. That wore me out. Let me know what you think at fangirlontheloose@gmail.com or on my blog. MTFBWY.
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