Dane Barbados on: The Movie Talkers
I will tell the people of harm that has recently come to myself, Dane Barbados Jr.
Recently I was attending a motion picture screening at one of your "multiplexes" (the movie matters naught) . After paying 10 of your dollars to gain entry and seven of such same dollars for a beverage of my choosing I was expecting naught but to enjoy my next two hours as I had been so unkindly grifted by overinflated, exhorbitant prices.
The theatre of the moviehouse was filled near capacity. Now you must realize that I, Dane Barbados Jr., do not particularly like being herded like so much cattle and surrounded on all sides by people so clearly beneath me and I was already upon edge.
Imagine my endless annoyance when as soon as the lights dimmed my pristine ears were assulted by rude catcalls and laughing and cellphone rings where I expected little more than reverant silence, if not for the movie then for nothing more than the fact that someone such as I was in attendance.
My insistance upon viewing the film superceded my urge to commit unpeakable violence upon the offenders. Alas that was not to last. In the film there was an extended musical montage (as is often the case in the films of Summer). Disgustingly, rediculously, several members of the audience felt that to be a prime opportunity to "freestyle" along with the beat of the score.
Is there no such thing as proper home training in your country? Are not children taught how to behave when amongst their betters and the public in general?
Why is it that I must be bombarded with cries of "Over here Pookie!" and "That stupid bitch should have ran! I would have ran! Why didn't she run!" or, my personal favorite: "I saw this shit last night, her daddy is the killer!"
Well I proceeded upon the only course that I could. I stood defiantly in the isle dressed my twin instuments Excalibur and Caliburn in finely crafted brass knuckles and began to lay hands upon each and person in the theatre whom was speaking during the film on my way to the exit.
As the icing on my poison filled cake, in the front row sat a putrid male blithely blathering away, having a full blown conversation, upon his cellular phone. Oh the horror I inflicted upon him, horror ending with me expectorating upon his grimacing face. Sweet joy.
Although I do not particularly like you, nor respect you I know that, deep down in your pedestrian soul you abhor these people as much as I do.
When next you meet a Movie Talker I urge you to smack them upon the face, or better yet scald their genitals with that repulsive hot faux-butter, ensuring that they lose the ability to procreate and generate more miscreants.
...unless that is, you yourself are a Movie Talker...in that case fuck you, I hate you and sincerely hope that you suffer death by genital leprocy. Stop reading, I revoke your pass. Go and die now.
Thus spoke Dane Barbados Jr.
Recently I was attending a motion picture screening at one of your "multiplexes" (the movie matters naught) . After paying 10 of your dollars to gain entry and seven of such same dollars for a beverage of my choosing I was expecting naught but to enjoy my next two hours as I had been so unkindly grifted by overinflated, exhorbitant prices.
The theatre of the moviehouse was filled near capacity. Now you must realize that I, Dane Barbados Jr., do not particularly like being herded like so much cattle and surrounded on all sides by people so clearly beneath me and I was already upon edge.
Imagine my endless annoyance when as soon as the lights dimmed my pristine ears were assulted by rude catcalls and laughing and cellphone rings where I expected little more than reverant silence, if not for the movie then for nothing more than the fact that someone such as I was in attendance.
My insistance upon viewing the film superceded my urge to commit unpeakable violence upon the offenders. Alas that was not to last. In the film there was an extended musical montage (as is often the case in the films of Summer). Disgustingly, rediculously, several members of the audience felt that to be a prime opportunity to "freestyle" along with the beat of the score.
Is there no such thing as proper home training in your country? Are not children taught how to behave when amongst their betters and the public in general?
Why is it that I must be bombarded with cries of "Over here Pookie!" and "That stupid bitch should have ran! I would have ran! Why didn't she run!" or, my personal favorite: "I saw this shit last night, her daddy is the killer!"
Well I proceeded upon the only course that I could. I stood defiantly in the isle dressed my twin instuments Excalibur and Caliburn in finely crafted brass knuckles and began to lay hands upon each and person in the theatre whom was speaking during the film on my way to the exit.
As the icing on my poison filled cake, in the front row sat a putrid male blithely blathering away, having a full blown conversation, upon his cellular phone. Oh the horror I inflicted upon him, horror ending with me expectorating upon his grimacing face. Sweet joy.
Although I do not particularly like you, nor respect you I know that, deep down in your pedestrian soul you abhor these people as much as I do.
When next you meet a Movie Talker I urge you to smack them upon the face, or better yet scald their genitals with that repulsive hot faux-butter, ensuring that they lose the ability to procreate and generate more miscreants.
...unless that is, you yourself are a Movie Talker...in that case fuck you, I hate you and sincerely hope that you suffer death by genital leprocy. Stop reading, I revoke your pass. Go and die now.
Thus spoke Dane Barbados Jr.
posted by Dane Barbados Jr. at 12:57 AM
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