Why, hello young couple. Nice of you to join us. Excuse me, pardon me, excuse me, pardon me.
Except you don’t say a goddamn word like this because these are social niceties
that are beyond you.
Fine. Here’s what you’ve missed. First, there were about
twenty minutes of trailers—you know, the ones that begin at the published start
time for the movie. Then, there was the opening credit sequence, followed by
about ten minutes of groundwork-laying plot development. We like her, we’re not
sure about her yet, and we hate him. Good. Now you’re caught up.
Okay dude. Your body language screams that this is not your
kind of movie, you are here strictly to humor your girlfriend, and you will NOT
be enjoying yourself at ALL. I mean, how could you? The main characters are
women, for God’s sake. What’s more, they’re not propping up a male hero, or
looking hot in a bikini. (Oh wait! There’s Kate Upton in a bikini! Does that do
anything f… no? NO? Okaaaaay.) Someone actually wrote and produced a movie
where women are interacting with each other outside the context of men. If you
even pay attention to such tripe, they’ll revoke your Man Card. And let’s not
even get started on the kind of message that will send your girl, am I right?
Your intentions have been made clear. I’ll just sit here and
pretend you don’t exist.
Seriously? You need to check the clock on your cell phone to
verify how much time you’re wasting at this movie?
Bro, if you wanted to check Facebook, you would have been much
more comfortable in your own home. I hear at home, you don’t have to wear
pants. Wouldn’t it be fun not to be wearing pants? I wish you were not wearing
pants, not here, not now.
Do you get that the
light from your phone burns into my retinas, no matter how much I look away?
There it is, plaguing my peripheral vision with blaring white light, taking me
out of the very movie I paid to immerse myself in. Some bears find that kind of
thing distracting. I’m pretty sure you don’t want to draw a bear’s attention to
yourself.
Look. Judgey Bear has a husband, right? (They call him Mr.
Bear) Do you see him here? Exactly. Because he would not like this movie. He’s
across the theater, at another screen, watching things explode. I hear there
aren’t even any car chases in this movie here. Perhaps you should go and join Mr.
Bear at the Man Movie over there? You know, not here.
I mean, Girl. Really? This is better than seeing the movie
on your own? You’re okay with the constant sighing, the shifting weight, the passive-aggressive
posture and worst of all, the iPhone-of-a-thousand-suns? You’d rather put up
with all that than sit in a dark theater by yourself letting a story wash over
you? You can’t peel yourself away from this one for just two hours, so you can
enjoy yourself in peace?
Girl, you need to get your man in check. Stare at him
pointedly, grab his cell-phone hand and hold it all romantic-like, blow on his
ear, blow him, something, anything to
shut down that light.
No? Okay then. I’ll make him stop. First, a friendly passive
aggressive stare. You know, the kind with a not-so-sweet, bear toothy smile.
 |
| What? I'm smiling... |
Five
minutes of this and he still doesn’t get the message; I’m still doing my best
not to see that soul-rending light. Perhaps my body language isn’t clear. I’ll
sit up straight. Gosh, dude, you’re pretty small. I mean, look at you down
there. Shut. Your phone. DOWN.
Fuck this. Feel the might of my judgmental wrath wash over
you. ROAR.
Now that I have your attention, I do believe I’m going to
bite your head off (not a metaphor). Don’t worry, though. As your hand goes
limp and your phone’s light blinks out, I’ll save it from crashing to the
ground. Perhaps I’ll find someone who can wield the social responsibility of a
smart phone—someone who can unplug long enough to watch a damned movie.
Speaking of which…
