Superjerk

Powerless, Liz writes:

I just got back from the matinee of Superman Returns. Of course I have a huge crush on the lad they have dubbed the new Clark Kent. What woman can resist a man that will catch you as you careen off a 60-story building without complaining that you've put on a few pounds? Even that gay curl that droops down onto his forehead works for me; but then again, when a man truly has buns of steel he can get away with things that most men should not attempt.

I am a fan of the franchise and even wore my Superman shirt to the theater to visually announce my loyalty. This hero-worship started as a child when Superfriends was the cartoon I lived for. I credit that and Gilligan's Island reruns with keeping me off the streets and clean and sober. Well, that and the fact that I was 6.

I arrived at the theater with my best comrade, all pumped for the show. It was perfect- a Wednesday afternoon, the crowd was light, the movie is playing on the widest screen, we bought snacks- it doesn't get any better, does it? We find some comfy seats, kick our feet up, and are watching the 15 minutes of pre-movie commercials (not previews) when this jerk walked in with his whole family in tow. You can identify jerks by their suspenders, booming voices, made-up sound effects and thick-lensed glasses. And you know how life goes. The theater is less than half-full and this wad elects to sit one seat away from me.

Apparently the jerk's wife and offspring have lived without TBS or DVDs their entire lives and have no idea about the Superman story. This is the only explanation I can fathom for their need to have every single sequence of action explained to them. As you might sense, I found the commentary to be quite off-putting. I wish I had the kryptonite that would weaken and destroy every asshole that doesn't know to shut the fuck up when Superman is talking. I dropped all the appropriate hints: the furrowed brow stare, the clearing of my throat, the disgusted sigh. I even said, in my own booming voice, "I'm going to have to move because this asshole next to me won't quit talking," and none of it worked. My friend is less confrontational than I am. She offered that I move to the other side of her. After repeated displays of disgust, I did so. Then she could hear it all. The squeak, squeak, squeak of the straw moving inside the cup before he would take a drink. The crunch, crunch, crunch of the pork rinds he had smuggled into the movie. The "That will probably kill him" spoiler before the Kryptonite pierced our hero's suit. What a dickhead!

This sequence of events has made me fantasize about opening my own theater. At my theater, you will have to bring a notarized voucher with you swearing that you will not talk in the movie. This document has to be signed by 3 character witnesses and if you violate the pledge, you AND the 3 witnesses are banned from the theater for LIFE. Human services is called and I will attempt to have your children removed from your home and placed under guardianship of people who are not fuckups.

I also fancy the idea of mobile seats in my theater. My job will be to sit in the theater and listen for assholes. When I hear anything above an occasional soft whisper, I will raise your chair, via my remote control, high above the crowd. The movie will stop, a bright light will shine on you, a booming voice will start the crowd with the chant of "Go to Hell" and your seat will be placed in an isolation chamber that runs along the top side of the theater walls. Inside this sound proof chamber the heat will be turned up to excruiating temperatures and you will be left to roast until the movie is over. Once it does end, The steel bars will come down and the glass will rise, making you a sitting duck for the audience, who is encouraged to throw things at you, spit on you, and hopefully urinate in your eye.

With this demented dream of mine, I may be more Lex Luthor than I care to admit!