Adam West is dead to me. Him and Burt Ward, but less Burt Ward because honestly, no one ever really cared about Burt Ward. But you, Mr. West. Up yours buddy. Right up it.
Allow me to backtrack. This past Saturday as part of my duties as managing editor of Holy Taco, I attended FanExpo in Toronto. 60,000 people over three days fill the Toronto Convention Centre, most of whom dress up in woefully inadequate homemade costumes, and they crowd together in an effort to meet the likes of Stan Lee, Lance Henrikson, Chewbacca and Mr. Adam West. I was there to get an exclusive interview with Adam West and tour the convention with him. We’d talk and laugh and have Danish and it would be magical. Wouldn’t it? It would. Was it? F*ck no.
My media pass allowed me to gain quick entry after being in line for a mere three hours. Ha ha, sucks to be you, four hour losers. Once inside I quickly got my bearings. To the left, geeks. To the right, nerds. Up the stairs? Overpriced merchandise and a Tron display. Tron; so manly. So intimidating.
Adam West was supposed to be signing autographs with Robin and one of the septuagenarian Catwomen somewhere in the building. I would join him there and whip up a wicked awesome exclusive for Holy Taco that other sites would be so envious of they would have panic shits right in the editorial office. I’m looking at you, Cracked.com. You know as well as I do that Dan O’Brien shits at the drop of a hat.
Yes, it’d be even more awesome than my interview with Uwe Boll, especially if I could get Adam West to admit a desire to impregnate Oprah or something equally insane.
I proceeded to the autograph area and ran afoul of this scene.
Do you see that shit? That’s an empty table and a disenfranchised security person. In the distance? The remnants of people looking for Stan Lee. Not a goddamn Batman in sight.
I assumed perhaps Adam was still getting ready in the bathroom or some such. Fixing his hair, taking his Cialis, whatever it is celebrities do before they meet me. I opted to go and wait at his table. And I waited. And I waited some more. The security guy offered to pose for a picture with me. But I didn’t care.
After an hour or so, the security guy got sick of me hanging around and asked me to leave. That became told me to leave within about 10 minutes. Then forced me to leave within another 5.
But where the hell was Adam West? The next logical location to track him down was the Batmobile. There was a high likelihood he’d be in the back with champagne and refried beans waiting for me. Made sense at the time.
I tracked down the Batmobile and found a half hour line to sit in it and take a picture. The only time I have ever waited a half hour to take a picture in a car was when I thought Chitty Chitty Bang Bang was in town and I was desperate to be a part of the awesomeness. Turns out I was sporting a 104 degree fever, was high on cold medication and what I thought was Chitty Chitty Bang Bang was actually the dryer. It was a weird scene and I ended up with some serious burns on my groin and lower body.
Adam West was at the Batmobile in the same way the bile wasn’t rising in my throat when I had to walk behind this for 10 minutes.
So instead I was forced to fist the Batmobile to teach it a lesson and, karmically, teach Adam West a lesson.
Is it wrong of me to attempt to fist an automobile as a method of seeking vengeance for being slighted? No more wrong than the expression on my face that makes it look like I was trying to shit. Or the fact I wore black socks with brown shoes.
In an all out panic I searched the sea of nerdmanity for any sign of Adam West. The closest I got was Iron Man getting a Coke.
A queer ass Iron Man in a padded uniform who kept his change in a breast pocket and had to pay with nickels and dimes. Come on, Iron Man. You’re the shittiest millionaire I know.
I sat down on some stairs with my frustrations and a cherry Danish while I contemplated my next move. The schedule said Adam West was in the building and schedules can’t lie. They’re the rules by which society operates. Without an accurate schedule we’re all just apes. Goddamn lying apes who are probably in the back jerking off Burt Ward. My cherry Danish offered no succor.
Look at tat f*cking Danish. See it driving the Batmobile? Using Bat-Shark-Repellent? Engaging in subtly gay innuendo with its young ward? No. No you don’t.
Rage hit me like a stair railing to the penis, something that happened to me a few years back and left me unable to pee in a straight line for about three months. It was like waking up with a drunken cobra every morning that knew it needed to lash out at the world but had no idea how.
I attempted to start a fight with some Jedi in an effort to vent frustrations but my heart wasn’t in it and there’s no point kicking a man when he’s down. And a man is never as down as he is when he’s out in public with a lightsaber and a Yoda-shaped backpack on. Instead I walked into a room full of gamers and asked if anyone knew how to get to a vagina, then laughed maniacally. As you can see, no one had an answer.
Unfortunately, loud vagina jokes are apparently on the list of taboo subjects at an event such as this and security asked me to quiet down or leave. I suggested security find me Adam West or I could find a small spoon with which they could eat my ass. My photographer unhelpfully only snapped this action shot of the result.
So there it is. There was no Adam West. There was only a tear-stained Danish, a fisted Batmobile, amorphous cosplay ass and me with a torn ligament. Adam West, go f*ck yourself.