When I go to the movies I must do two things. Three things, actually. It’s mandatory. I just have to. Naturally.
First, I must drink overpriced soda from the soda fountain that is bad for me. Root beer, preferably. I cannot live without it. Root beer, that is. Not at the theater, at least.
Then I must have a popcorn. Lots of popcorn. It must be simmered in butter and slavered in sodium that is definitely not at all good for me at all. Not at all. Cardiologically so. Bad, actually.
Seed oil, preferably-mandatorily, actually. It must pretend to be butter. Why not? I pretend to be a discriminating theater goer and critic. It pretends to be butter. It’s a lose-lose situation.
Then I take an additional sip from the soda fountain above and beyond what I am allotted and top off the rest. It’s a guilty pleasure. One glug is not enough. It’s the law. Never mind that I might not drink the rest of it and have some sugar sludge at the bottom of the cardboard cup at the end of the movie.
That’s not the point.
I just have to drink said soda plus a little bit. A tad more. A British tad. A standard American tad. It doesn’t matter which. With lots of undiscriminating soda, erm, popcorn. Lots of popcorn I don’t care how bad it is for me.
Just drink the soda that I took another sip from the fountain, I don’t care how much poly-multi saccharides there are in each glass... thingey... crapload there are in each cardboard... cup… styrophero-glass… sphere…
Whatever. Just drink it and shut up.
And it just doesn’t matter how much popcorn gets into my mouth and how much gets sprinkled in between the seats. It’s still theatre-theater popcorn. Not to mention what gets wedged between my front teeth. Popcorn in teeth is the seventh simple machine. Guaranteed.
Then I take a deep, cool glass of water, em, soda. Root beer.
Ahh. Now I am ready to enter the theater
It’s the experience. The military-industrial-theater-complex experience. In genuine three-dee and art deco splendor.
And I end up in a tizzy. Dizzy. Popcorn-sugar overloaded ditsy.
And drop popcorn on the floor or in my lap. Or both. All while the coming attractions are coming and going… and attracting. Nah. Not really.
Get on with the movie, please! Floor-lap gets most of it, anyway. The popcorn, that is. What doesn’t get lodged between the seats. Seat-corn must pose a growing terror for theater ushers everywhere.
And now there is faux butter on my shirt.
I forget what the forth thing is…
And that’s the truth.
Ah, the movie starts!
Finally!
Enjoy.
