Hey you filthy animals, how was the turkey? In the afterglow of Fat Thursday, it’s time for another round of InkedFur’s Furry Friday here on Lawyers & Liquor, which means that it’s time for me to cast off the “normal lawyer” routine and embrace the Badger as we cast open the kennel doors and start talking about an issue geared specifically towards the Furry Fandom. Before we get into that, though, you need to be aware that the folks over at InkedFur.com are offering 25% off dakimakuras this month for only the first 25 readers that go to their site and enter the super-secret code…which you’ll find at the end of this article!
Cool, so, this month’s article is definitely self-aware. Like, “totally woke” self-aware, because it’s coming a week before Midwest Fur Fest, a huge fucking convention in Chicago, and it concerns a very specific type of convention safety. Namely, it concerns being safe with alcohol when you’re surrounded by thousands of unblinking fursuit eyes, and it’s geared towards the first-time attendee. Actually, I adapted this shit from a regular speech I give to high schoolers about safety right before they graduate, so, hey! You get to realize I’m like this all the fucking time and not just with the furry horde that has assimilated me!
That said, without further ado, here’s the Furry Friday guide to Alcohol Safety at Cons.
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My life is a blur of furries and cars these days.
There is nothing left for me. I’m dispensing with all of the neat and happy intro stuff this time to dive right into the breakdown of my time at IndyFurCon 2017.
I swear to god these guys are like a cult. They lure you in with all of the neat art and friendliness, you think maybe it’d be a little fun to interact with them, then next thing you know you’re hauling ass across three states in the dead of night because they raised money for a convention and your stupid ass made a promise to go to another convention on like three days notice if they did that. So, you know, you hop your ass in the car and drive in the dead of night through fucking Ohio to go visit the furries in Indianapolis, arriving in the “Oh my god, there’s a three in the morning now?” hours of Saturday worn out from a drive to shamble into a hotel and be greeted by a giant goddamn panda who, despite running a convention, is now currently waiting for your arrival in particular.
Every weekend has turned into a mixture of Hunter S. Thompson and Salvador Dali for me now. This is my life. So take my sweaty, cold, oversized hand and close your eyes tight, and we’ll just get right down to business here as we discuss Indy Fur Con: The End Result Of A Series of Bad Decisions.
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