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13 July 2009 @ 02:59 am
Return of the Aristocrats & Ard Boyz' 2009  

Our store, like hundreds of others, ran Games Workshop's 'Ard Boyz' Tournament for Warhammer 40k this weekend.  It's something that all of our players look forward to every year, and usually one of our busier tournament dates.  The Law of Perversity was already in action, as one of our A/C units is on the fritz and the store is fetid and lukewarm toward the end of the afternoon.  I made the mistake of asking a friend of mine, 'how could things get any worse?'

So why is it that the one group of people that NONE OF US want to see decides to show up on that day?  Do they just sense that they'd be the most annoying if they came on that particular date?  Have they as a family evolved some kind of messed up gland that allows them to be aware of loathing and inconvenience on a subconscious level?  If someone has this answer, I'm keen to know.

The Aristocrats.  A family so-named for a comedic in-joke that I could actually see them acting out.  They consist of Tit-Grabber, Grease-Monster, Nasty-Senior, Bitchfit, and a wad of greasy satellites who decided to show up alongside them for a game of 1st edition D&D.  Degenerate behavior fostered within three generations of the same fucking family.  (Here's a prior entry about that.)  These people, collectively, have the worst case of gamer funk I've ever been forced to tolerate...each is a walking stereotype, and they give every other geek I know a bad name.

Of the Aristocrats, Tit-Grabber is the most disturbing.  He appeared from behind like a creepy little herald, his arms wide and his eyes hopefully focused six inches below my chin.  "I missed you!  Hug?"  Either because of how busy I was, or because of how suddenly the awful crept up on me, I snapped at him, "No," and away he scuttled to warn the others.  I used to consider it a polite gesture because the customers were accustomed to hugging another female staff member, but it's been a long time since I've played nice with these people.  Tit-Grabber earned his name from a hand-gesture he made repeatedly one afternoon that nearly had him banned permanently from our store - reaching with open hands at my breasts, then opening and closing his fingers a few inches away.

Yeah...no. 

Word spread between their oozing gestalt, and by the time I had a second to keep them in check, they were all glancing over at me with discontent.  The Grease-Monster (the father in this orgy of yuck), all 6.5 feet and eight tons of him, managed to wobble to the counter carrying his 2 liter of Dr. Pepper like a teddy bear, and forms his chronic wheezing into a question:

"Are there any rooms open for gaming?"
"Let me take a look for you."
  I stride off to look.
Pink and I meet eyes in passing.  The realization is born.
"Sorry, we have two large events right now, we don't have any space."
I was being honest, but it was wonderfully convenient.

We all wait in hope as he wobbles back to his group, Bitchfit coming to the counter to flirt casually with the Lamb.  The Lamb, for all his pleasant virtues, is vulnerable to friendly women, even the most crazypants ones, and so she quickly entrances him with her playful antics, despite that the rest of us recognize her as a psycho-hosebeast with no good adult role models to stem the tide of her hormone-soaked behavior.  She's a cat in heat with a mighty need for the penis and no hygiene...and when she passes, it's with the distinctive monkeyhouse reek of female gamer funk.  (An insidious and thankfully rare beast.)

Once Bitchfit is deployed, Nasty-Senior makes a beeline for me...and he's unusually guarded, probably from the Tit-Grabber's warning.  I greet him, but I make myself busy elsewhere.  This is the same man who insulted Pink to her face because he disliked her chosen haircolor on that day - as though we're there to please his fucking aesthetic.  I fully blame him for the moral, social, and hygenic collapse of his family...as the self-proclaimed patriarch of that nasty little brood, it was his responsibilty to instill good values on them.  Epic Fail.

Just as the others are about to tuck in at one of the store-front tables (I was about to go into the back and hang myself with old coat-hangers in despair), Grease-Monster announces that they will be gaming at Tit-Grabber's house instead, and they begin to say their goodbyes.  Again I am asked for hugs, from both TG and the Grease-Monster himself, but I quickly made my hands full and said goodbye as I "Looked Busy(tm)"

We breathed a collective sigh of relief.
Now if only they'd fix our A/Cs.