Old people annoy me.
I’m not talking about your sweet domesticated strain of granny that smells like sugar cookies and wears an apron and cans peaches. I’m talking about the evil untamed strain that hails from the nether regions of the Midwest and move in droves to Phoenix during the winter months. Where do I hate them the most, my favorite movie theatre.
They arrive in herds, talking loud and smelling like they dipped themselves in a vat of whatever Avon cologne smells like burning tire rubber. They believe hygiene is an option, and so what if the shirt I donned that morning has scrambled egg from last week on it. They never seem to know what movie they are watching and yell things at each other usually during crucial plot sequences.
“NOW WHO IS THAT?”
“WHY IS HE WITH HER?”
Granted, I realize people don’t have an entire IMDB database stored in their heads like I do, but for GODSSAKE take a glance at your ticket stub and keep in mind you aren’t watching Fred Astaire dance but instead you are watching Nic Cage in yet another really bad hair piece and turn up your damn hearing aid.
I usually enter the theatre casting a wary eye, looking for the worst offenders. I look for a seat where there is at least a minimum of 3 empty seats in any given direction. Last week, I found the perfect seat and prayed one of them wouldn’t sit near me. Ahhh, but in comes granny with a head of unwashed hair, carrying what appeared to be her queen sized floral bedspread and plopped down right in front of me. I turned to Tim, who knows the drill, “we have to move NOW.”
Once I was forced to sit behind a man that smelled like a dirty leather shoe and hadn’t seen a comb in 2 months. I told Tim I didn’t know if I was going to make it, I asked him for his service revolver but he wouldn’t give it to me.
Listen, I’m not asking for much, except for you funkified old folks to just stay home, sitting in your worn down recliners watching QVC and eating egg salad sandwiches.