I got ripped off by a 'Star Wars' nerd

This past Saturday a few friends and I hit up the Star Wars Celebration III at the Indiana Convention Center in Indy. Well, sort of ...\nWe arrived Saturday afternoon around 3 -- this way we'd be there in time for the panel featuring Warwick "Willow" Davis. Damn, I love little people, and after having seen his turn in "Ray" I figured scavenger smoking might've been in order. Lo and behold, the damned thing was sold-out. "Luckily," we ran into a cigarette-smoking "Star Wars" fanatic outside the convention center. He told us he had a few "guest passes" that he'd bought for his kids and that they couldn't make it. Obviously, my bullshit detector was tripped. After looking the passes over, I came to the conclusion that they were kosher. Me, being the smooth operator that I am, told the dude I wouldn't pay him until we got into the con. We did (admittance was granted by a chick dressed as the female assassin from the beginning of "Episode II") and I did ($20, which was half the price of entry -- he wouldn't accept credits). Strangely, after paying the "Star Wars" wuss with our hard-earned green, he busted out faster than Anakin "Wee!" Skywalker in a pod race. Suddenly the scent of bantha fodder filled air.\nSo me and my buds are moseying through a sea of spazzes -- ladies both hot and not don Princess Leia's slave outfit (one broad's butt cheeks popped out the sides of her getup), onslaughts of the unlaid sport Stormtrooper suits and one tool had a taun-taun mockup wrapped around his waist. So far so good. My pals and I are fans of "Star Wars," but nowhere near the extent of the creeps at the con, and as such we're having a good laugh at the legions of losers surrounding us. \nThe laughing ceases when we realize we'd been hoodwinked. Our guest passes were good enough to get us into the convention center's lobby, i.e. we can gawk at goons, buy overpriced nachos at the food court, peek our heads into the doors of panels/displays and do little else. When attempting to enter the LucasFilm Archive we were sternly told by a dorky duo in matching Emperial guard garb that we couldn't enter unless we were accompanied by a member of the "Star Wars" fan club. Well, our hook-up had long since hoofed it, and the other oafs (most of whom had Steven Seagal-esque ponytails and faux lightsabers in hand) I wouldn't cross the street to piss on were they engulfed in flames let alone latch onto.\nFeeling lost, dejected, taken advantage of and damned angry we sought a remedy to our current conundrum. I toyed with thoughts of using the Jedi Mind Trick to gain admittance to the galleries being denied us. Or perhaps we could jump a couple Stormtroopers a la Luke Skywalker and Han Solo circa "Episode IV," take their costumes and go wherever the hell we wanted. The notion of saying "screw it," buying a Jar Jar Binks cardboard cutout from the gift shop (which we didn't have access to), taking it to Don's Guns, renting a machine gun and decimating the damned thing also crossed our minds. Instead, I approached a booth being manned by a gentleman bearing a striking resemblance to Ron Jeremy, told him I'd received the pass from my uncle and asked what I could get into with it. Looking at me like I was handicapped, he said I shouldn't even be there unless I possessed the much-coveted "badge."\nLong story short, we said "screw it" (minus the machine gun), had dinner served to us at Perkins by a nine-fingered waitress, played a butt-ton of "Halo" and "Halo 2," watched "Pulp Fiction" and "Wonder Showzen" and I went on an overnight drunk killing the better portion of a fifth of Seagram's whiskey by downing innumerable 7 and 7's. Cut to the next morning: I'm hung-over, still pissed about the previous day's transgressions and have to drive an hour-plus back to Bloomington for work. As such, I do what any responsible soon-to-be college graduate would: I lay on my buddy's couch watching Nick GaS (it's Nickelodeon's game and sports network chock full of "Double Dare" and "Guts" reruns) in HDTV, making explicit comments about Robin Marrella (you remember her, she was Marc Summers' clean-up wench) and her "mom jeans," noting the irony that Summers hosted television's sloppiest series while suffering from obsessive-compulsive disorder, catching a pal catching Jeromy Burnitz's game-winning three-run homer during the Chicago Cubs' Sunday victory over the Pittsburgh Pirates on "SportsCenter" and showing up to work something like five hours late.\nI've always thought of myself as somewhat of a "tough guy." After having been ripped-off by a "Star Wars" fan, I'll have to reexamine this notion, try to live down the humiliation and begrudgingly yet eagerly anticipate "Star Wars: Episode III -- Revenge of the Sith." Just don't expect me to buy scalped tickets to any sold-out pre-release screenings. Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on George Lucas.