We’ve all been to a movie theater at one time or another. Until relatively recently, I had a run of about five years where I didn’t set foot into one. I can’t really recall why but it just sort of happened. Now, within the last two years, I’ve been going to the theater an average of twice a month and even have a points card. The multiplex in my city is new and has excellent seating so, unless some extremely tall asshole like Xtreme or Deistbrawler sits in front of you, your view is never obstructed. Also, the seats recline just enough to make one very comfortable. That’s not to say that every experience is an enjoyable one. As a matter of fact, both my best and worst experiences have happened within the last year.
The best, by far, was at the Friday afternoon premiere of Zombieland. I rarely go to movies in the first couple of weeks of their release because, quite frankly, I hate people and think they’re all fucking idiots. But in this instance I broke my rule because it was the weekend of my birthday and I had taken Friday off. I saw Harry Potter (I think) at the cheap theater then headed down to the expensive one to partake of some Woody ass-kickery. I purchased my ticket, got me a $2000.00 bag of popcorn and settled in with my flask of rum to wait for the theater to fill. And I waited. And I waited. And I waited some more. By the time the movie started there were all of four people in the whole goddamn place. I had a seat for my jacket, both cup holders and arm rests, a footrest, and blessed silence. No distraction, no talking, no one kicking the chair. It was like being in the biggest home theater in the world and it was pure magic. I walked out of that movie happier than I’d been in months, although I’m willing admit the fifth of rum might have had a hand in that.
Star wipe to a few weeks ago
My lovely bride and I decide to catch a movie sans kids for the first time since our most recent parasite was jettisoned from that of which we do not speak. Iron Man 2 had been playing for a few weeks and there was nothing else interesting so we decided to give it a whirl. We headed down to the theater and I immediately knew something was wrong as I had to park over four blocks away at 12 o’clock on a Sunday. In my city, that’s like parking in New York to walk to L.A. We obtain our libations from the snack counter after a ridiculously long wait and proceed to the screening room. It is packed wall to wall with fucking heathens who should be at church begging their God to forgive their transgressions! Not the least of which is being in my presence while I’m trying to enjoy a movie and possibly some sweet popcorny love from the Missus. I advised my wife that due to these unforeseen circumstances I can no longer be held accountable for my actions and we take our seats. Luckily, I have perfected my “you don’t want to sit in this row because I may remove your spine through your clenched rectum” stare so we managed to have empty seats to the sides of us. This is when a woman who lovingly adorns herself in Paris Hilton’s latest bottled vaginal secretion and her Axed up husband sit in a row twenty feet away. The unmistakable aroma of douche permeates the theater and begins to render people into varying states of unconsciousness and nausea.
The movie begins and we are regaled with the idiotic questions of children at a volume which ensures their parents will hear them…at the concession. Finally the parents return from what must have been a distant foraging expedition considering the length of time it took and so I, and the rest of the audience, assume the little errant ejaculations will shut up. Of course this doesn’t happen and now not only are we subjected to idiocy like, “Where’s Tony going!” and “What’s happening? I don’t get it!” we are blessed with the father of the tribe constantly shushing mommy’s precious shoulda-swalloweds but failing to enforce society’s code of conduct. It was quite obvious that the entire family arrived on the short bus from the special house where everyone wears helmets because, even when members of the audience began telling the unfortunately fertilized ovum and the donators of the flawed genetic material to be quiet, it was to no avail. People, I cannot stress how important this is: If you can’t control your animals, leave them at home. Lock them in the house. Hell, I don’t even care if you want to have free-range genetic defects, send them out onto the freeway to play. Just don’t bring them out in public.
About three quarters of the way through the movie I notice an older gentleman in the front row who appears to be dozing in his seat. It was really quite impressive as, if you’ve seen Iron Man 2, it’s not the quietest of motion pictures. What was even more entertaining was the random shouting every couple of minutes. He’d just be lying there and suddenly, “What the hell!” or “Come on you dumb fucker!” would spring forth from his poetry hole. I was letting it slide figuring he may have Tourettes or the need to spew profanities like farts after good meal when suddenly he spring to his feet and yells, “I’m gonna get some beer!” It would be around this moment when I realize that the man is so drunk at 1:00 in the afternoon that he must have been shotgunning whiskey by way of enema all morning. I point out ButtBoozy McGee to my wife as he shuffle-slides his way out of the theater and she seems to be impressed with the level of motor skill he’s been able to retain. Approximately five minutes later Mr. Ass Liquor returns and, if the smell was any indication, he had made good on his promise and succeeded in securing more beer. I’m still at a loss as to where he found the spirits, as the theater in question does not serve alcohol. This occurs about three more times from the ass guzzler complete with, “what the hell are you?” “I needs me some shoes!” and the ever popular, “Now who’s going to grab my cock?” Thankfully the movie ends shortly before Jack-Ass Daniels decides he’d like to demonstrate his drinking technique and my wife and I sprint for the exit, destroying all those who would hamper our progress. When I informed the manager of our complaints and suggested that he may want to remove the drunken lunatic from the premises, he looked at me with eyes so vacant I almost removed his emo little head from his torso for fear that the zombie apocalypse was upon us. As we left the theater my wife looked at me and said in her most angelic tone, “Well that fucking sucked donkey balls.” Step off motherfuckers, she’s mine.
Now I know what you’re thinking: “Mr. Scott, why in suitably warm hell would you stay in a movie with some idiot’s seed that should have hit the floor in defiance of Catholic doctrine, two people who obviously idolize the cast of the Jersey Shore to such an extent that they undoubtedly bathe in The Situation’s freshly used toilet and a man with a penchant for inappropriate dubbing and sucking up booze with his talented anus?” The only answer I can offer is that kids make you do stupid shit. When you’ve got a house full of them, you can tolerate almost anything to be alone with someone who isn’t one. That’s my tale of movie theater heaven and hell and I’d love to hear yours. Incidentally, drinking wine with your colon isn’t that bad, just don’t forget to remove the cork.