You would believe it would be a simple job of taking a set of tickets, ripping them in twain and telling a person what direction their theater is without them getting hopelessly lost in the process. A couple in their mid-fourties came up to me and handed me some tickets for Resident Evil: Afterlife (a mistake in itself), effortlessly I took the tickets, tore them properly, and pointed with my thumb to the theater located directly behind me, and said “it’s in theater number seven, right behind me.” So they took their drink and popcorn, then began walking towards the direction of the theater, then they continued onward far past the theater, and wandered another two hundred yards, to the end of the hallway. After a few moments of studying the extremely complex, and overly interesting design of the exit sign, they slowly turned around and puttered back on down the hall. I know people are lazy, but is it really that difficult to turn your eyes and read a single digit in a rather large and readable font? Then again they are likely not educated enough to read an entire number in one go.
Though it’s not particularly an untouched subject, but the state in which patrons leave the theater once they finish a movie is so deplorable, it would make Hitler blush. Apparently patrons feel the need to pay upwards of twenty dollars on popp-ed corn, and fizzly beverages, only to take them to their movie and toss the about in a hillbilly hoe-down like frenzy. They then reload by going to the concession stand and redeeming their complementary refill for their large popcorn. Once returning to their seats, they celebrate the occasion with a hardy bellow and promptly upturning their newly received kernels unto the floor from which they don’t belong. Oh the bliss that must fill them as they sloth themselves down the hall and into their needlessly large car, as I am left to deal with the carnage they created. The horror.
On that particular Friday, one of the men’s restrooms contained a rather pungent and potent smell, which largely resembled the scent of rat urine. Because of this smell, I refrained from using that particular restroom, seeing as I’m not one to go in search of the source of a rather offensive smell. Eventually I ventured back into that lavatory, only to find the smell still present, and there was a puddle of an undeterminable liquid, so I assumed it was the source of the smell. Following the standard Alejandro protocol, I applied the use of water to alleviate the situation. Putting water on things always makes everything better, whether it be on fires, hysterical people, Kool-Aid mix, or large piles of sulfur, it’s always a good idea.
Anyhow, I later returned to the restroom at a later point in my shift, only to find the smell still present, like a house guest that won’t leave. I thought that perhaps the origin of the smell was in the air ducts, until I noticed something different about the room, a change the occurred since my last visit. This particular room contains two urinals, one of which has been broken for many a moon, and had been promptly covered with a trash bag, to let customers know that it was not in working condition. Yet, someone apparently felt it had been a gift for them to unwrap, so they took the bag off and placed it upon the shorter urinal. People need to understand that simply removing a bag from a toilet does not mean it’s fixed, and the stagnant yellowy-green opaque liquid in the bowl should be a sign of that. Perhaps it’s not humans who come to see movies at my theater, rather a series of weasels who pile inside a human suit and wander around.
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