Okay, I have now finally been to see James "I'm just going to keep killing stuff until you cry" Cameron's monster tree pull and cat shoot. It was very shiny. It was also almost three hours long. Still didn't even manage to make a dent in my concession stand fountain drink, though. I think Cameron would have to pick off every single card carrying member of the screen actor's guild one by one to buy me enough time to hit the bottom of one of those wax paper buckets.
I always buy one, though. Not so much because I want one as because I would feel deprived if I didn't. Same goes for candy. Yesterday the early show we'd arrived for had been sold out, and we spent the bulk of the two hours waiting for the next showing at a mall food court. By the time we arrived at the theatre there was barely enough room in my pants for both me and all of the mall pizza I'd just consumed, and the top layer of my tongue had been stripped raw by the sugar in the pop I'd washed it down with. It took a truly admirable force of will to get me to that concession stand, I tell ya, but I made it. Only the weak skip dessert, and as far as I'm concerned if I don't have a bag of chocolate between my knees I don't have any business even being in a theater seat.
Yeah, not really a popcorn fan. Wasn't before last night, definitely not one now after spending three hours sitting behind someone who liberally sprinkled hers with a seasoning that smelled uncannily like the least adorable part of my dog. Fortunately the people behind me weren't eating anything too obnoxious, or perhaps I just couldn't smell it over the sound of their kicking the back of my seat. I appreciate that sentence didn't actually make sense, but I really wanted to work the fact that they kicked the back of my seat for three hours into this post and that's the best I could come up with. Yes I will get over it, I just need to work through it in my own time, that's all.
No, of course I didn't complain. I sat there and took it like a Canadian, dammit.
Am I still allowed to say that? Judging from the ad I saw before the movie, the licensing rights to Canadian patriotism have been purchased by the Coca-Cola company. Evidently their market research department has concluded that the most effective way to inspire patriotism in Canadians is to scream "He shoots he scores!" in our faces repeatedly until, one would apparently logically conclude, it makes us thirsty. Then for a finale they finished things off with a veiled dig at America. Oh yes they did! They told Canadians to remind the world where hockey came from. Okay, giant American corporation, I will! Right after I finish my Pepsi. Ideally I'd bundle up my spite scented brand loyalty and dedicate it to a Canadian brand of pop instead, but that's just not a practical option. Canadian pop is called "beer", and drinking it requires the taking of public transportation. In this part of Canada taking the bus requires five layers of clothing and the social calendar of a comatose ninety year old to be a workable proposition. Also they don't let you fiddle with the temperature controls and get really snarky when you sing along to the radio at the top of your lungs. I can't behave that well in a moving vehicle when I'm sober. They're simply asking too much of me.
Then when they got up to leave they leaned on my hair. The people behind me, I mean. At the movie. Yeah I was kind of hoping a smoother opportunity to work that in would present itself before I finished writing this thing, but I'm out of ideas and still have healing to do.
Wherein Things Go Downhill Pretty Darn Fast
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