Basically, it's a spin on the famous confrontation between Tom Cruise and Jack Nicholson in A Few Good Men, which I actually haven't seen, not that it matters. It just popped into my head last year when we were talking about themes, and I went with it. Nobody was too outraged, so there it was.
Eventually, of course, this came to mind.
Chief Wombat: (angrily) Son, we live in a fandom that has limits, and those limits have to be set by fans with brains. Who's gonna do it? You? You, fanboy? I have a greater responsibility than you could possibly fathom. You weep for the catgirls, and you curse the staff. You have that luxury. You have the luxury of not knowing what I know. I tell you that the catgirls' death, while tragic, probably saved the sanity of thousands of otaku. And that my existence, while grotesque and incomprehensible to you, saves conventions. You don't want the truth, because deep down in places you don't talk about on 4chan, you want me on that staff, you need me as chairman. We use words like permissions, budgets, resumes. We use these words as the backbone of a life spent running conventions. You use them as a punchline. I have neither the time nor the inclination to explain myself to a fanboy who glomps, squees, and forgets to shower in the very hotel that I provide, then questions the manner in which I provide it. I would rather you just said thank you, paid your membership fee, and went on your way. Otherwise, I suggest you pick up some cheesy poofs, and go work in the con suite. Either way, I don't give a damn what you think you are entitled to. Because I'm running registration next year, and all this will be Kale's problem.
Fanboy: (shouting) So did you order the Code Red?
Chief Wombat: (calmly) No, I ordered the Diet Coke.
Yeah, I suppose we could have done this up as an amusing skit for Opening Ceremonies, but as stuckintraffik so memorably said during our actual opening:
"You know all those other conventions that do the fancy skits with the music and the light shows-"
(The lights flash momentarily in a fancy disco-like pattern. He looks up, clearly irritated, and they stop.)
"-and all that kind of stuff? Well - we don't do that."
(He unplugs the extension cord he's holding in his hands, and the stage goes dark again.)
Yup. That's the way it was.