Before you get to read your regularly scheduled post, here’s the NYCWD update:
As of right, now, at midnight EST on Tuesday, June 26th, we have raised just over $2800! Everyone is amazing. We’re so close to $3,000, and I’m only keeping this going through Sunday. Tell your friends, tell your church, tell your mom. Spread the word – let’s go for broke on this one!
And now, Wednesday’s post:
So, tonight, we went out to the movies. A typical Tuesday night normally allows us to enjoy the theater without too many crowds, obnoxious people, or other issues that plague the movie theaters on Friday nights and the weekend.
Unfortunately, this wasn’t a typical Tuesday night. A hot summer night, a PG-13 thriller (“1408”), and apparently a pheromone sprayed by the theater chain that attracts retards, meant that we weren’t going to have a nice, quiet experience.
While there were several obnoxious people around us, including the four pre-teen girls sitting directly in front of us who kept opening up their cell phones to text message until I kicked each of them lightly in the back of the head, the undisputed champion was the woman sitting to my wife’s immediate left – Chatty the Dinosaur!
This woman had no filter. Everybody knows the type of person I’m talking about. They have no ability to disconnect their tiny little peanut brain from their mouth. A thought pops into their empty fuckin’ head and is immediately spoken aloud.
So. We’re sitting there, enjoying the previews, when in waddles this prehistoric creature. With a little reptilian head, squinty eyes, a tongue that kept flicking out over her lips, and a wheeze that indicated the lung capacity of an elephant, this monster plodded up the stairs and fell into the seat next to Amy. The entire theater groaned and shifted, and dust from the newly-formed crack in the ceiling slowly floated down.
Shoveling popcorn into her mouth at a rate that was clearly necessary to keep her four stomachs full so that she could regurgitate it in the mouths of her hatchlings later, this monstrosity began to regale us, and everyone within a 15-foot radius, with her own commentary on the movie unfolding before us. Her husband, a man who would look strong and hardy in most circumstances, sat beside her, a beaten, timid soul. In between raucous crunches of popcorn, she began:
“Oh I like that John Cusack he was so good in that movie with that girl who we saw in US magazine that was dating that boy remember honey? Why’s he driving down that street? Oh he stopped because he’s lost and now he’s turning around I can’t imagine having to do a turn like that in the rain boy I think it’s going to rain tonight but we could use it because I think the grass is looking a bit brown and dear, you need to make sure to do more fertilizer tomorrow don’t forget about that oh look he’s going into the hotel I hope it’s not too scary because I’m not going to sleep for weeks like that time I saw Harry Potter do you remember how scared I was and I thought one of those Deserters or Demoners or something was going to show up and kill me!”
And then, during the scene, lightning flashes. It wasn’t scary or sudden – it was raining on screen and expected. Nobody jumped. This moron, however, shrieked like a banshee. And then continued.
“Ooh that’s creepy why is he going in there I wonder I don’t think I’d ever stay in a place like that, but I wouldn’t walk around investigating because I’d go hide in the tub…”
My wife turns to me and hisses, “If she doesn’t get quiet, soon, I am going to elbow her right in that giant maw she calls a mouth, and even if I lose my elbow, but I can dislodge a couple of her teeth and they go down her throat and choke her to death, I’m okay with it.”
So, clearly, being the man, I had to step in and save my wife’s elbow. I waited until the movie was relatively quiet, but Gabbasaurus was still going a mile a minute, and I said, in my clearest, most authoritative tone, “Would you shut the fuck up?” The entire theater gasped and hushed, including her. And we enjoyed the remainder of the movie in relative silence, punctuated with the occasional scream at the non-scary elements, and random gasps at parts that were not supposed to be surprises or twists.
Until the end. The credits start rolling, and she says loudly, “Well, what does that mean, huh?”
And once again I summon my big man voice and say, “It means you’re a fucking retard.”
And the entire theater erupts in laughter. And in the darkness, I smile and the world feels right again.