Pat's Favorite Moment From Comic Con 2010

As I was growing up, GI Joe was my absolute favorite cartoon show. Everything else was secondary to it. He-Man, Transformers, Thundercats, M.A.S.K., Silverhawks, whatever else . . . all of them paled in comparison to my love for GI Joe. To me, seeing a sign asking me to enlist in Cobra Industries was like a giant pulsating beacon. I couldn’t look away. Without even knowing what it was yet, I got in line and tried my absolute hardest not to start hopping up and down in excitement. Inside though, I was screaming like a little girl.

Thankfully, the line was short (a rarity at Con) and in a few minutes I was told to go up to one of the three stations they had set up where they were processing enlistees. I tried not to show my disappointment that the guy behind the counter wasn’t dressed in some sort of Cobra Uniform as he asked me for my name. I gave him my name as he asked, and then was told to step back for my picture to be taken. I suddenly realized that I wasn’t sure how I wanted to look in this picture. I was joining Cobra, so I should look evil and menacing, right? I gave the camera my best evil face, which came off looking more confused than anything I think, and was then told to go down to the end to pick up my badge.

“Badge? I’m getting a badge?” I thought. “Too Sweet!”

I walked down to the end of the line where a new guy was putting what looked like employee badges together. I utterly failed in my attempts to not look anxious as I waited for my badge. The minutes ticked by eternally slowly, until I heard my name finally called.

“Patrick” the guy said, in a bored sounding voice.

I jumped a little and was at the desk in a second. The badge was handed to me, and it was glorious. I had been given a Cobra Employee ID card, just like the kind I use every day to get into my office. It even came with the little retractable string thingy you use to attach it to your belt loop. I was in heaven.

“Hey”, my friend Lee said (who had been with me this whole time), “They spelled your name wrong.”

WHAT? Where? I looked again, I hadn’t even noticed it. My last name is spelled Roach (just like the bug or the drug paraphernalia), yet somehow the blonde stoner looking guy behind the counter had managed to spell it Roch.

To quote Darth Vader. NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!

I could not believe that they had misspelled my name. Not for this. This was too important. I had to get this right. My inner child was at the reins now. He was going to join Cobra, and he was going to have his fucking name spelled right as he did it.

The line wasn’t too long, so I hopped back in, tapping my foot now in impatience as I eagerly awaited a second chance to join Cobra’s ranks. I got up to the front of the line, and was this time directed to a different kiosk than the blonde stoner guy’s from before. “Thank god” I thought. “Maybe this new girl will actually know how to spell Roach.”

I go up to the counter. She asks my name. I very slowly tell her, “My name is Patrick Roach. R-O-A-C-H.” Yes, I actually spelled it out for her, just to be sure. She just smiled at me and said she got it. I stepped back and got ready for a second photo. Again I tried to look evil and Menacing. This time, I don’t think I look so much confused as I probably do mildly constipated or something. I really need to work on my evil glares apparently.

Another round of waiting at the badge desk. Again my name gets called out. Again I jump. I snatch the badge from the guy’s hand like a starving kid on Halloween grabbing trick-or-treat candy. My eyes shoot straight to the name.

Patrick Broach.

At this point I just start laughing at the absurdity of it all. The laughter helped me from breaking into tears. How hard is it to spell Roach anyways? It’s a common word. It’s not like my last name is Morgendorffer or something like that. I look back at the line, it’s gotten obnoxiously long now. I didn’t want to stand in it again, yet at the same time I didn’t want to walk away with a misspelled card.

I think for a couple of seconds, and then I see that the girl I had taken my second picture with is just finishing up with someone, and the person running the line hasn’t seen that they’re available yet. Without thinking, I run back up to her desk and say, “I’m really sorry, but you misspelled my name on this. Could I please do another one?” I tried really hard here not to sound like the whining 8 year old I really was in that moment. I don’t think I succeeded though.

To her credit, the girl behind the counter took pity on me and said that she still had my picture saved in her computer. She could just retype the card if I wanted, or I could take an all new picture. I mulled this over in my head for a few seconds. I wanted to take a new picture, but I had by now realized that my attempts at an evil glare were going to continue to fail until I practiced on them more. Also, I was starting to feel really self conscious, having had to go through all of this for what most other people around me probably considered to be a random/easily forgotten Con trinket.

I decided to just have her re-type the card. I tell her my name again, even slower than before. R-O-A-C-H. No B. Just 5 letters. No B at the beginning. Yes, just like the bug. Yes, just like a spliff. Did I mention, no B? Ok, cool. Just making sure.

She promises me that she got it right, and tells me to head back to the desk again. I wait another minute. The guy at the badge counter now recognizes me. He gives me a “What the hell are you doing here again?” look as I wait for him to call my name. He finally does. He doesn’t even hand me the card this time. He just left it on the table once he was done putting it together. I can’t blame him really. To him, I’m just some creepy older guy who shouldn’t even be in this room unless I had brought kids with me, which I clearly hadn’t.

I don’t really dwell on that though. All of my concern is focused on the little plastic card on the table. Did they spell it right? Am I going to have to scream at someone if it’s not right? With slightly trembling hands, I pick up the card from the table and turn it over.

I’ll be honest here, I think I let out a small “Woohoo!” I take no shame in admitting that. It was a pain in the ass to get, but it was now in my possession. I had a Cobra Employee Card. Deep down inside, 8-year-old pat was dancing like a madman.

Yes, it’s just a stupid little gimmicky piece of plastic. Yes, it probably cost Hasbro about .005 cents to make this thing. Yes, I should probably grow up a bit (ok, maybe a lot). I don’t care. I have a Cobra Employee Card, and it’s every bit as fucking awesome as I ever hoped it could be.

As I walked out of there, I made sure to securely attach my ID card to my belt. I wanted to proudly wear this thing for the rest of con. Yes, I even wore it the next day on Saturday too. When I got home, I made sure to put it somewhere proper. It now sits on my bookshelf, right next to my Cobra Commander (in a suit at a podium) figure and my Sgt. Slaughter figure with a WWF World Heavyweight Title belt.

Best . . . Con . . . promotion . . . ever!