Fat People: Proudly Crippling Box-Office Returns Since 2003

I now understand why box-office numbers have suffered a significant decline over the past few years. Sure it’s easy to blame the movie industry for not having a single original movie or idea in the last 3 years. I mean, there’s a reason that all those cheesy 70s sitcoms went off the air. If you’re counting on “Love Boat: The Movie” to pack in audiences, you’re going to be sorely disappointed.

I went to the movies over the weekend and decided maybe the lagging sales weren’t exclusively caused by the death of creativity in show biz. Maybe it’s because audiences are getting more repulsive.

I was sitting in my seat near the front of the theater when I suddenly became aware that the theater was louder than usual. Carefully surveying the crowd I noticed a huge percentage of kids. And not just kids, infants. Strollers and carriers littered the isles while siblings perhaps two and three years removed from breast feeding tore up and down the rows screaming, whining and fighting. It’s not like I was in a Disney movie, either. I had come to see the newest Jack Black movie and was appalled by the number of kids.

Who brings infants and three year-olds to the movies? I thought about it and decided that it’s simply disturbingly anti-social behavior. Like people who walk around naked, or get obscenities tattooed on their face, or listen to country music. It’s a level of hatred for your fellow man that is rivaled only by the most horrible of prejudices. Unless you’re hating on the Dutch. Fuck the Dutch!

Where was I? Oh yes, hatred. I was sitting quietly with my friend when a family of six stumbled up the isle. They began fighting amongst themselves in a way that let everyone in the theater know that they brought a level of self-loathing to the earth that Klansmen could only dream of. The disheveled and disorderly children scattered about the adults pushed each other while the parents cursed. It’s truly disconcerting to hear parents curse each other in front of their kids.

Without so much as an “excuse me” they climbed their way over me and filled up the isle to my right. The mother, an enormous, acne-ridden woman wearing some sort of muumuu, lowered herself wheezing heavily into the chair next to me. There’s something deeply disturbing about a person who’s given up all hope of being even marginally presentable. I struggled to look straight ahead as the beast to my right shoveled pop-corn into her gaping mouth. Kernels tumbled down to the floor or spewed off into the next row when she turned to yell at her kids.

How do you not look at something like that? Everything about her appearance and behavior screamed, “Look at me!!!” It was like she was begging for a confrontation.

The lights dimmed and I tried to focus on the movie, which isn’t easy when you’re sitting next to Jabba the Hutt. At any moment I expected her to tug on a chain bound to the neck of the youngest daughter and demand that the kid dance for her. The enormous figure to my right was overflowing over the seats. The armrest had long since disappeared under a mountain of arm fat. Her elbows had cleavage that would elicit jealousy from Dolly Parton. Come to think of it, considering all the wrinkled, hanging skin, the comparison to Dolly is disturbingly accurate.

I still could have let everything slide. But then things took a turn. The beast next to me began struggling for air. Every single exhale ended in a sputtering wheeze. It continued for about ten minutes while I struggled with the impulse to win the undying adoration of the theater by strangling her with a projection reel. Then the moaning started. Each exhalation ended with a groan of effort and a sputter of saliva that I could picture sliding down her chin. I left when I felt condensation forming on my arm.

There’s a certain law that people try to follow when confronted with a person of unspeakably horrifying appearance or behavior: we all try to ignore it, or act as if we’re accustomed to it. Having lived near to New York City, I’m experienced in the art of avoiding eye contact. But enough is enough.

You should have seen the dirty looks this woman gave me when I got up and moved three seats down. The whole experience was enough to scare me out of attending movies for the foreseeable futures. I’ve decided that I’m not attending another theater unless I’m seeing NC-17 pictures. Now there’s an audience that knows how to behave. Still, I can’t help but think that if major studios really want to see a spike in ticket sales, the best option is sending a dump-truck carrying 85 gallons of congealed hog-fat to this woman’s door. If that doesn’t kill her, it should at least keep her occupied long enough to let me enjoy Superman Returns in peace.