In times of free swag and gun bunnies there is a special breed of wannabe ready to answer the SHOT show call. A common man with uncommon desire to copy ideas and to stop at booths only for free stuff. Forged by advertising, he stands alongside America’s finest special operations forces ready to bother them for pictures and autographs, and to project their weak way of life onto them. I am that man.
My beard, 5.11 pants, 550 cord bracelet, and hat with Velcro are symbols of hounding and harassment. Bestowed upon me by the wannabes who have gone before, it embodies the trust of those I have sworn to pretend to be. By wearing an empty MOLLE pack I promise to look like someone else who chose this profession and way of life. It is a privilege that I must earn for a few hours, once a year.
My loyalty to the other wannabes is beyond reproach. I humbly serve as a guardian to my fellow show attendees always ready to bump into others without apology and take extra swag, making it harder for companies to do business. I will try every day to advertise the nature of my work and seek out companies pretending to be a brand influencer, while begging for free products for my actions. I voluntarily accept the inherent hazards of the SHOT show, placing the welfare and security of the swag in my roller cart before all others.
I’ve never served, have no honor, and have never seen the battlefield. My ability to be a childlike fanboy for days on end when I see former military personnel walking in the aisle, sets me apart from other men. Uncompromising interruptions of others talking are my standard. My carelessness and mission for free pictures for Instagram steadfast. My word means nothing.
I always expect to be led. In the absence of other Call of Duty players, I will fail to take charge, I will ask all everyone around me for guidance and still fail the mission. I am unable to lead by example in any aspect of my life.
I will never quit. I persevere and thrive on finding any operator who is busy during the show trying to build their business. My fellow wannabes expect me to be physically softer and not mentally prepared to walk and stand for up to 8 eight hours in a row without sitting down in the hallways. If knocked down by a roller cart I will get back up, every time. I will draw on every remaining ounce of energy to protect my stack of moral patches, my signed Hot Shots calendar, and to accomplish our mission. I am never out of the fight.
We have no discipline. We expect imitation. The lives of my fellow wannabes and the success of the SHOT show will never depend on me. I possess no technical skill, tactical proficiency, or attention to detail. I do not personally know any operators and cannot add to the betterment of the industry; my mission is never complete.
We train for pretend and fail to win. I stand ready to bring the full spectrum of my 200 Instagram follower’s power to bear in order to achieve my mission and the goals established by other wannabes. The execution of my duties will be slow, cumbersome, and uncoordinated when required yet guided by the very principles that I serve to defend.
We have never fought for anything, we have nothing worth building except the pathetic tradition and reputation of a tactical fanboy that I am bound to uphold. In the worst of conditions, the legacy of my fellow SHOT show attendees steadies my resolve and noisily guides my every deed. I will not fail.
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