Greetings, and welcome to the Con on the Cob staff page. I am Andy Hopp, your host. Enjoy the following stream-o-conciousness lies, half-truths, and confessions.
Yeah, so, I have no idea what to say about myself. For starters, I was hatched in the frigid wastes of Antarctica raised by macaroni penguins for a few years, shipped off to an elite boarding school in Equatorial Guinea, thrown in a pot with carrots, onions, and celery, baked in a 400 degree oven for two and a half hours, covered with bread crumbs and broiled for an additional five minutes (until crunchy), allowed to rest for fiteen minutes, and enjoyed with a nice green salad, some fresh corn, and a glass of chablis.
Then my friends and I decided to host a con. Yeah, that's pretty much my life story. |
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Perhaps once in a millenium a civilization is graced by a being of such wondrous beauty, ephemeral wisdom, sylph-like grace, deific intellect, unfailing loyalty, supreme wit, snazzy hair, and boundless creativity as to make the whole of society tremble in awe. Heather is just such a being.
She's the greatest thing since sliced fire. A better mousetrap. The wheel. Yeah, that's it. She's the wheel. Figure out the metaphor for yourself. Hey that was pretty cool. I guess I could have just written "the metaphor yourself" and it would have sounded pretty much the same. Is it awkward to say "metaphor for"? Is that two many "for" sounds in a row. And then "your" rhymes with "for". So it's like three rhyming "for" sounds in row. Oh, and she's my wife so you can't have her. |
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Her hat is old.
Her teeth are gold.
She has a bird she likes to hold.
Her shoe is off, her foot is cold.
Her shoe is off, her foot is cold.
She has a bird she likes to hold.
Her teeth are gold.
Her hat is old.
And now her story is all told.
Oh wait, no it's not. Kristen is awesome. She's Gunnar's main squeeze, so don't get any ideas (yeah, I'm talking to you, buster). She enjoys long walks in the mud, building stuff with Lego, painting stuff orange, and shaving hamsters. Oh, and by the time you read this her name will probably be Kristen Hultgren...
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Bored with memories of a childhood misspent peeping in the windows of condemned habadasheries, melting popsicles with a magnifying glass, and constructing historically accurate, life-size, Civil War forts out of egg cartons and fingernail clippings, young Gunnar was given the gift of ultimate something by a passing wallaby, entranced by the lad's piercing gaze and minty fresh breath.
Armed with new insight, Gunnar quickly set to work on his most majestic creation yet, a full-scale replica of a suburban mailbox, using nothing but wood, nails, screws, paint, and a bunch of power tools. A tornado blew it down so now, in disgrace, he uses his powers for good, managing the WORLD FAMOUS Con on the Cob Artitorium. |
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What can a person say about Elizabth Lutz? I'll tell you, one can't really say anything about her. One must sing to fully emphasize the amazingness of her character, the charm of her smile, and the stripiness of her trademark socks (which she sometimes wears and sometimes doesn't, it's all part of her mystery).
I'm not sure if it's true, but I've heard it said she is the last remaining descendant of the Ming dynasty (the evil space guy, not the ancient Chinese guy). If so, she certainly hides it well. It's been months since I've seen her blow up a planet or aim a death ray at some hapless hero as she reveals her secret plot in a moment of shameless exposition. Do your own research and let me know what you find out. |
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In 1972 a crack commando unit was sent to prison by a military court for a crime they didn't commit. These men promptly escaped from a maximum security stockade to the Los Angeles underground. Today, still wanted by the government, they survive as soldiers of fortune. If you have a problem, if no one else can help, and if you can find them, maybe you can hire AnCon.
In real life the guys and/or gals of Another Game Company are utilizing their VAST EXPERIENCE to help CotC organize and run various gaming events and tournaments, as well as offering valuable insite into the whole con-ular mishmash.
They also run AnCon, which is a really bad ass gaming con in May (at the very same hotel in which we are hosting Con on the Cob).
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Nobody is scarier than my man Curtis P. I'm not sure what the P is for, since the middle initial says F, but apparently it's some sort of rap thing. Y'all wouldn't understand.
Anyway, when not skiing the slopes of Maui, surfing the whitecaps in Aspen, building award-winning snowmen in Algeria, or throwing rocks at unsuspecting guinea pigs in his own backyard, Curtis can be found howling obscenities at passersby, knitting sweaters out of yak wool, twiddling his thumbs, scaring the pants off (and then quickly back on) of everyone he meets, roasting green peppers over a wood-burning stove, and managing the Comedy Music Extravagasm! and Variety Show at Con on the Cob.
He ate the dinosaurs. |
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Yeah, I don't really know anything about Pat. He seems like a decent guy, but I like everbody. |
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Tabitha is a freakin' force of nature. When she walks into a room, heads turn, dogs howl, the lights dim, the record stops, and tongues loll. I once saw her stop a tornado dead in its tracks with a coy glance. A verifiable master of the "yo mama" joke, a cunning ham, a kazoo virtuoso, and an Elmira-licious lover of all beasts, my girl is bold, courageous, and strong. Trust me, you want her on your side when the stuff goes down.
Word has it she once crossed the road just to get to the other side, but when she got there the road had packed up and skipped town in fear. When she crosses a road it stays crossed. It knows it's been crossed. She's so cool she farts icebergs. It's true, I've seen it done. |
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Don't be fooled by her last name. Jessica is no mere cook when it comes to baking up the funky grooves. She's more like a master chef of jazzy jazzness, jamming jams judiciously. Jealous jokers just jibe, jape, jest, and jeer while Jesse joyously jousts jabs, jinking jealous jokers justifiably. Ya dig?
No, neither do I. I have no clue what I'm talking about. Thing is, Jesse's just this girl, ya know? When she's not helping Tabitha organize the con suite, swiping credit cards from charging rhinoceroses, screwing in a light bulb, balling bearings, or gurgitating her way through various competitive eating events (ranked #3 in the national lamb fries tournament (233 sheep balls in 10 minutes), Jessica can usually be found lounging in front of the tv, lounging by the pool, lounging near the elevators, lounging in the lounge or doing jigsaw puzzles in the dark. She's my friend. |
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Oh Lord Fecundus, we bow to your fertile loins. Gus has more kids than a termite queen. He's the most fertile dude I know. Seriously, if I may paraphrase a line from my friend ShoEboX, if you put an Egg McMuffin down his pants it'll turn into a McChicken. Wow, I mean he seriously has like six thousand children.
When not spewing forth offspring, Gus spends his time sallying forth, galavanting onward, jaunting to and fro, perusing Woman's Home Journal for elusive brownie recipes, spending quality alone time in his bitchin' tree fort, writing wishy-washy sonnets about bumblebees and apple trees, coloring inside the lines, and eating jelly beans (lemon lime Jelly Bellys are his fave).
When you meet Gus, nod politely and say hello, but don't linger too long, you might end up with one in the oven... |
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The offspring of a former Bulgarian figure skating champion and a Bolivian orthodontist, Jen was abandoned as a child in the jungles of Alaska and raised by a family of aardvarks until the age of twelve, when she set off on her own to strike it rich in the big city.
After four decades of wandering around, trying to strike it rich in the big city, Jen realized she was still in the jungles of Alaska and would have to actually find a big city in which to strike it rich, if she indeed wanted to strike it rich in the big city. She gave up in frustration and decided to organize Buttery Goodness, Con on the Cob's freaky-deaky film festival.
Jen currently lives in a cave near Akron, Ohio with her fourteen cats, three large apes, and a butterfly named Theodore. |
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Jon is the kind of guy who would gladly risk his own life just to drag you into a burning building. Two-thirds mystic hermit, four-fifths misanthropic curmudgeon, one half ancient wise man, seven-twelfths peripatetic hypnogogue, 100% my cousin, and absolutely, definitely, without a doubt ALL HERO, Jon prowls the night in search of hapless victims with whom to clean fishbowls, read poetry, and travel by train across Europe.
Of note regarding Jon: he has a starfish surgically implanted into his forehead, he's Parker's dad, three ravens once nested in his hair for a month before he noticed (which is odd, because his hair is short and clean), he has an all over body tattoo depicting a taller version of himself, was actually the sixth Monkee, twice ate an entire case of dry Ramen noodles, talks to fire hydrants, and completely, utterly, totally, and wholely ROCKS THE #@$%in' HOUSE!!!! |
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Something squatting in the fungus piped noisomely on a flute as the old man raised the Necronomicon above his head and began to chant. Ugly vapors churgled rudely from the swampy reeds. Strange glowing things wobbled vainly in the dimness. Howls of anger and betrayal dirged from the captive-holes, but I feared no retribution; I had been summoned to this festival by my forefathers (all four of them).
The flame was lit, the oblation eviscerated, the bile drunk. The circle was drawn. From the groaning dankness came a waft. The thing that shumbled from the muck was indescribably more plant than man, more man than fish, more fish than snail, and more snail than dinner plate. Yet it was all these things.
"Behold," uttered the gasping preist, jaw agape and chin running with vile phlegms and ichors, "Moses Allooh arrives". "He has come to run the LAN party."
Sweet.
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Aaaaaah, Beth. Beth. Beth. Beth.
Wow, Beth. Beth is such an amazingly amazing chick she makes that one amazing chick (you know the one) look like a smushed cucumber. She's so cool she can swallow a scrambled Rubik's cube and puke it up solved. she pities more fools than Mr. T, makes more plans come together than John "Hannibal" Smith, talks about more whutchus than Arnold Jackson, and breaks down more walls than Kool-Aid Man. That's right, she's a mover, a shaker, a butcher, a baker, a dollar an acre, an earth quaker, a risk taker, a candlestick maker, and an Indian fakir (you know, those guys who climb ropes to nowhere, sleep on beds o' nails, and eat glass).
When not invading South American countries in her canoe, tying scurvy dogs to the yardarm, or grilling bbq ribs, Beth can often be found singing along to The Backyardigans, eating raw potatos, filing things under "w" for "whoopdy ding dong", and just generally infusing the world with all things Bethular. |
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Brian is the Roman god of sunshine, butterflies, Care Bears, and bread mold. He farts (I'm sorry, toots) lollipops and belches delicately frosted butter cookies and rainbows. Flowers grow in his footprints. Babies stop crying when he enters the room. Clouds dissipate, snow evaporates, women swoon, men faint, savage beasts loll their tongues, and unfinished basements spontaneously paint themselves in his presence. Brian is a human rainbow, the fairy pond from Zelda, a glee club of one.
When not singing at nursing homes, grafting his own skin to burned children, rescuing dalmation puppies from Cruella D'ville, habitating for humanity, hugging trees, or baking wholesome and nutritious oatmeal raisin cookies for disenfrachized youths, Brian can be found in his basement torture chamber, pulling the wings off of flies, smushing daddy long-legs with an old boot, or curled up in the fetal position weeply quietly to himself. |
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Dashing and daring,
Courageous and caring,
Faithful and friendly,
With stories to share.
All through the forest,
He sings out in chorus,
Marching along,
As his song fills the air.
Brian Deyer'!!
Bouncing here and there and everywhere.
High adventure that's beyond compare.
He is the Brian Deyer'.
...mand.
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