So, today is the day that I've been waiting for since sometime in November: I saw Coraline. Bitchin'! What was not so bitching was that, much like adventure to see Wall-E, I've come out of it feeling pretty stabby towards the film-going public.
I probably should have seen this coming at the box office line. I was standing behind two girls, who, just when they got to the front, were immediately joined by a seven-pack trollop of skanklets. A bit harsh, but when you're wearing a skirt that looks like it could be used as a belt in February, all I can say is, get the cash up front. While I didn't so much mind the fact that they seemed to shop exclusively in the jailbait section of American Apparel, they then proceeded to take a full five minutes to count how many of them were in their group.
Once I found my seat for Coraline, and after buying a Diet Pepsi roughly the size of a Volkswagen Beetle, the Roving Hoard of Mini-Hoes set up shop behind me (in the middle of an empty theatre), and began furiously texting and giggling at frequencies that set off dogs and car alarms within a five-mile radius.
It was half-way through the previews that the bitch behind me decided to kick up her heels, planting the size 8 sole of an Aldo boot into the back of my head. I refuse to be donkey punched when some guy is ramming me from behind, so you can imagine how I took get donkey kicked by a hooker with a grade 9 education and braces.
I took ten seconds to calm myself down, remind myself that they were still kids, and that a dignified person would not stoop to screaming obscenities in the middle of a theater.
Then I remembered that I had no dignity.
It was at the point that I got up, turned around, and screamed "FUCK YOU, YA MISERABLE LITTLE BITCH!". I then hauled ass ten rows down, and resumed my viewing experience. The group of Lolita wannabes didn't say a thing for the rest of the movie (Which, by the way, WAS FUCKING INCREDIBLE).
Afterward, I ran across the street to work, which was rather quiet for a Saturday, but who am I to bitch here? It's been pretty quiet thanks to all the snow. On Friday, I actually counted how many licks it takes to get to the center of a Tootsie Pop, which is approximately 560, give or take a few licks. Sure, some owls may say it's three, but who are you going to believe: Me, or some fucking cartoon bird?
To stave off the boredom, I brought along a couple books from my current pile. Today's reading consisted of Diablo Cody's Candy Girl, and the swimsuit issue of Out Magazine (the latter of which I really do read for the articles; the speedo-clad models are just a very sexy bonus). As you can see, not exactly family friendly.
While I was off in the kitchen, packing assorted pieces of roasted livestock, a group of eight year-olds from a party wandered behind the take-out counter and began rummaging through my book bag. When I got back, I was treated to a verbal tirade from a very angry mother whose son had wandered into my PG-13 selection. I retaliated with the fact that it wasn't exactly my fault that she didn't teach her precious little klepto-kid not rummage through other people's belongings. Her rebuttal consisted of her squawking like a highly-insulted chicken. Fact of the matter is, if you don't teach your kids not to go through other people's personal shit, they deserve an eyeful of Lycra-bound cock.