end women's sufferage

Tell ya what, gals: you wanna come to a comic convention—you wanna come to MY house, so to speak—you better come correct. Don’t wanna be called “fake?” You better be able to tell who the Golden Age Flash was, how many Robins there were, and what Superman’s birth mother’s name is. Don’t wanna be called an “attention-whore?” Leave your costume at home. If you’re not fake, you’re just here to enjoy your hobby, not be the center of the spotlight, right?

Look, I know females claiming to read comics, let alone not outright spitting on the hobby and it’s participants is a new phenomenon, but fuck welcoming them with open arms, quite frankly. Every female who goes to a convention should be forced to submit to a questionnaire that reads like a comic book trivia quiz, and if you score below a ninety, you’re ass is ejected from the venue with no refund. And I’m not talking, “What planet does Superman come from?” or “Who’s Bruce Wayne’s butler?” OOOOOOOHHH, no! If you can’t tell me in what issue Colonel Computron made his first appearance, your ass is hittin’ the sidewalk.

I wish I could talk my brother into dressing up for a convention. He’s 6’2”, blonde, built like a brick shithouse; he’d make a PERFECT Captain America fresh out of the pod after getting his serum. First slit who tries to pinch his muscles or pose for a picture with him, flip the script and tell these vapid cunts not to sexually harass him. God DAMN would that be awesome…