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When her leathery, crow-footed face turned towards my raised hand and said, “Yes, the boy in the Sailor Mercury t-shirt,” I sprung into action. It took me a brief 20 seconds to acquire the bokken (wooden sword) I had secured to the underside of our chairs with duct tape the night previous. Shouting “Japan BANZAIII!” in the manner of those noble kamikaze pilots from the War of United States Aggression (so tactlessly referred to in your history books as “World War II”), I charged the stage, bringing down the bokken forcefully onto the plywood table in front of Tiffany Grant. It was a tragic mistake not to channel my ki correctly. The bokken splintered into a thousand pieces, leaving me with no other plan of attack besides shouting, “You’re no Asuka!” as two Ohayocon toughs escorted me out of the room-SomethingAwful.com
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