We were returning from visiting his family and were enticed from the freeway by a giant, glowing sign … enticed by the promise of ammo, fishing poles and the beautiful art we call taxidermy.
But again, we were denied entrance.
Instead of walking through the 25-foot door adorned with about 1,000 antlers and two bucks fighting (no, I am not shitting you), we turned around and did the sad Charlie Brown walk all the way to the movie theater to see Harry Plopper 7 v1.
I was pretty excited to see HP, but less so when about six teenage girls and a mother who looked like a *really old* teenage girl sat in front of us.
Something you should know: Matt and I are strict movie non-talkers. You can whisper, fine. Just stop talking. Now.
I don’t know if it’s because of or in spite of this trait that we almost always end up seated near people who narrate the entire film. Or they say what’s going to happen before it does. Or laugh really loudly at parts that aren’t funny.
Anyway, after I heard them wantonly jabbering for about two minutes, I told them to “sssssshhhhhhh.” And if you’re thinking I am uptight, I have to say that I was thanked for doing so by other patrons during the credits.
At other points, Matt asked them politely to shut it and I *may* have cursed. I don’t remember. I was trying to watch a movie.
As we were walking out to the car, discussing how obnoxious they were Matt stopped in his tracks and then asked me: “Hey, were those chicks all wearing bumpits?”
I paused for a moment to ask myself, “Did my husband just inquire about bumpits?” and then I said, “Oh, you mean those hair-volumizing inserts? Why yes, I think they were.”
I’m f*cking with you. I didn’t say that. I burst out laughing at him. The end.
|You broke my heart.|