by Grace Crawford

All Doctor Who images courtesy of the BBC.
Normally, conventions are a place of joy. They’re filled with happy fanboys and girls, all cavorting about in costumes and cosplays and skintight outfits. There are good things, like comics and posters and plush toys and keychains and Jayne hats and DVD box sets and t-shirts and Storm Troopers and panels with movie stars and previews of some of the exciting new movies that are coming up, and there are bad things, like two bimbos in Avengers outfits that hit on Karl Urban right as you’re in the middle of telling your boyfriend that no, girls can dress up like that without trying to hook up with celebrities because maybe they’re just really big fans or something.
But that’s not the annoying thing about cons lately. The annoying thing is that the convention floor is absolutely flooded with guys in pinstripe suits, trench coats, and Converse, or similar-looking guys in tweed suits, red bow-ties, and fezzes. Because the first time you see it, you’re like, “Awesome.” The second time you see it, you’re like, “Heh-heh, clever.” The thirty-seventh time you see it, you’re like, “If I see a David Tennant lookalike one more time, I’m going to jam his sonic screwdriver somewhere unpleasant.”
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