99% of fans are awesome and even most of 1% of the other fans mean well.  But if you’re one of these ten people, please, just stay out of Artist’s Alley at comic book conventions.  Remember, I am armed with a paddle.

1.  Drunk Fan Boy:  Being the “Keeper of all Things Super Frat”, I have to endure drunk fans at a higher rate than most.  It’s okay, I expect to get shouts in the hotel bar and asked to borrow the frat paddle to whack someone.  But in Artist’s Alley, I’m trying to make my own beer money.  So if you got the sweats, can’t focus and like to ask stupid drunken questions without buying anything, just move along drunkie.  Get thee to the nearest bar and throw up on the cab ride home like a normal person.  You don’t belong slurring your words in front of my table.  And why the fuck would you pay convention center prices for booze, you dumbass.

2.  Mr. I-Need-Directions:  Hundreds of tables, hundreds of guests and you can’t seem to find who you are looking for.  But I don’t have a blue shirt and this isn’t a fucking Best Buy.  I actually had to explain to two different fans this weekend that the guide that they were holding in their hands, had a fucking map of the convention floor with numbers corresponding to names.  How did you braindead retards find the door into the convention?  Oh and my table number was right to the left of me, facing the wide part of the aisle on the corner.  Look much?  First time in the big city?

3.  Obnoxious Cosplayers:  I love the costumes at shows, I really do.  Most cosplayers are fine people with amazing talent.  But there are a few that give the rest a bad name.  Newsflash: If you’ve got a costume on, people will stop you constantly to take pictures.  Doing that in front of my table makes me want to beat you until the blood runs out of your Spock ears.  There are plenty of wide aisles and side walls where you can take pictures all day long.  However, walking through Artist’s Alley in full costume is infuriating to people who actually want to sell things.  First, you in the skintight Spandex body suit usually can’t carry your wallet, so no money.  Second even if you did have money and want to buy my comic, we’ll be stopped no less than three times while you attempt to look at my comic and pay me.  And finally, do you really want to be dressed as the Silver Surfer carrying a bag of convention shit?  Stay out of the alley until you power down, Iron Man.

4. The Your-Table-is-My-Table Guy:  Oh, you just got an autograph picture from some B-movie actor along with a not-so-well-done pin up of Deadpool and a poster for whatever corporate piece-of-shit sci-fi movie you watch?  Guess what?  My table is not the place to “get organized”.  I didn’t carefully stack my comics to have you slam your book bag on top of them and fuck them up.  You might remember, fanboy, fans don’t like it when you scuff up a comic book.  So get your ass and your pile of crap to a snack bar table you selfish prick.  I’m trying to sell stuff here.

5.  The Food Guy:  Speaking of snack bar, that’s the place to eat food, guy.  Stop looking around with dead eyes while you wolf down another soft pretzel.  Trust me, you don’t need the carbs, chubbo.  And I don’t need your crumbs or the condensation from your Mountain Dew container landing all over my carefully arranged shit.

6.  Captain B.O.:  Okay, I’m gonna say it.  You stink.  I mean, you reek, motherfucker.  You smell like you’ve been dipped in shit, then set out in the sun to dry only to get dipped in shit again.  Is your nose not functioning?  Jesus Christ, you should not even be in the con, much less Artist’s Alley.

7. Giant Obese Guy:  If you can stand in an aisle and your ass can touch a table on either side of it, you’re too fat for this ride.  I’m glad you’re walking around, you clearly need the exercise, but I don’t want your heart to give out at my table.  You break out in a sweat flipping through my comic and leaning on my ten dollar convention table is a really bad idea for you.  You and your hover-round need to think more about that application to get on The Biggest Loser and less about buying that Near Mint Spiderman.  Cons are made for walking and shopping and the last thing your heart needs is a two hour walk while carrying a bust of Spawn and sporting the costume and scarf of the 4th Doctor.  Spend more money on fruit and less money on cookies and Game of Thrones tchotchkes.

8. The Promoter:  Whether you’re a hot chick in a skimpy outfit or a misguided comic book store owner passing out business cards, I’m not here to hear about your business, I’m here to promote mine.  If I wanted to hear about your business, I’d be at your table.  I’m in Artist’s Alley.  Land of no money.  Shilling here is like going to the poorest part of your town and asking for donations to charity.  Hot chick, you have a nice ass, but I’m not interested in your constant need for attention because of your various daddy issues.  Pass out your promo cards somewhere far away.  Comic book store owner, you could start our business relationship by buying something.  WTF good is your business card if you’re not interested in buying my product and I don’t live near your store?

9. Lecherous Photobugs:  You know who you are.  Fuck, give it rest.  You’re most of the reason the aisle clogs up with cosplayers, you selfish, horny nutbag.  I swear to you, this weekend, a guy had an assistant with a light.  He actually spent about ten minutes posing the cosplayers.  You’re not a professional, dude.  If you were, you would be aware of your surroundings and take your subjects to a quiet, well lit corner.  Yet, here you are, imposing on everyone like you’re important.  I know those pictures are for your blog, but Christ, they’re just pictures!  It’s not a contest!  How many fucking Dr. Who, Deadpools, Batmans, Supermans, Captain Americas, zombies and girls with wings are you going to photo before you say to yourself, “You know, I think I have enough of these.”

I was at Dragon Con years ago and, no lie, and this hot, hot, hot chick is wearing this superhero outfit.  It barely covers her ample breasts and goes straight down to meet between her legs with no underwear going on.  Every time she stood up, her tits pulled the costume away from her body and you could see everything.  She had to remember to keep her hand pressed against the center of the costume.  She was shadowed by no less than 12 lecherous, lecherous fanboys.  She finally forgot and stood up from her seat.  I had my table nearby and I was nearly blinded by the multiple camera flashes that suddenly went off.  Is this honestly the first time you’ve seen a live vagina?  Atlanta is rife with strip clubs and hookers, fellas.  Get a life, a girlfriend or just pay for it already.

The etiquette is, you ask the cosplayer politely if you can take a picture, then take the cosplayer aside and snap the pic.  And if you can’t do it in under 20 seconds, then just stop.  You’re too stupid to work a cellphone camera.

10.  People With Babies:  What a shock.  The guy who makes the I Hate My Kids webcomic is slamming babies.  Parents, I’m sorry you had a kid and you really want to go to the con, but your kid doesn’t read comic books, doesn’t watch or understand Dr. Who, cannot appreciate Norman Reedus’s autograph and will only suck on a Mego collectible action figure if you were dumb enough to take it out of the box.  You bring your kid to the show and push those enormous baby carriages with you.  Then you have the temerity to use it to block my table with you adjust a diaper or some other baby bullshit you have to do.  You’re not at the con.  You’ve just moved your baby sitting duties somewhere else.  Why would you pay $65 to go to Wizard World Philadelphia just to spend the entire time doing baby shit there?

If your kid can’t walk, you can’t come.  Simple as that.  Your kid should be home where he won’t get poked in the eye by a cosplayer weapon or attempt to get his sticky mitts on my merchandise.  Raise your kid.  Patrick Stewart will be back another year and William Shatner, as we all know, is immortal.  Isn’t it better that you’re home, raising your kid, rather than blowing part of his college tuition on collectible bullshit you’ll probably have to unload on ebay after your divorce?  When the kid can walk, you can come back without the giant baby carriage.

And don’t try that, my-kid-can-walk-but-I-really-brought-the-carriage-to-carry-my-purchases bullshit.  The kid is still too little.  You still have the fucking carriage.

Out!  Out!  Out!