Good Things Come to Those Who…START THE DAMN MOVIE!!!

Posted by Danny Gallagher (danny@filmschoolrejects.com) on May 8, 2007

Nine out of 10 scientists agree, waiting sucks.

The only thing worse than waiting is, of course, more waiting. That moment when you think the waiting is over and just when you think you’ve seen the promised-land, more waiting comes behind it. Its God’s dollar bill tied to a string.

Ever since the British sleeper hit “Shaun of the Dead” invaded America’s shores like a squadron of Navy frog men with bad taste in cuisine, I’ve been dying to see what the new Big Three of Simon Pegg, Nick Frost and Edgar Wright would turn out next. The sequel to a zombie romance comedy movie could lead to just about anything: an alien invasion slasher skin flick, a blaxploitation espionage comic book epic/documentary, a gay cowboy movie.

It turned out to be “Hot Fuzz,” a British American cop buddy flick filled with wild and unnecessary gunfire, obscure references to horror movies and a swan. When it finally landed, I had the plan all set to see it. I’d leave work early to meet a friend for dinner and drinks because no great movie experience should happen sober. Alcohol is the new 3-D glasses.

Then we’d head over to the theater with enough time to grab our tickets, a watered down soda and some seats after all the commercials and trailers have run. It was a perfect plan. Then again, so was supposedly the pre-war plan for the Iraq invasion. Both were done on the back of a McDonald’s napkin.

I get to the restaurant, and my friend is at the bar three drinks ahead of me. I sit down, order a steak and tell the bartender to keep the beers flowing fast and frequent. I glance at my watch. Its three hours before the movie starts. The movie didn’t have a huge number of theaters, so screenings were short and the earliest we could get was 10:30 p.m. No problem, I’ve been in tenser situations that involved beer and guns. Ah, prom night.

Minutes turn into beers and within an hour and a half, I’m slightly schnakered. Nothing wrong with that except my buzz will wear off by the time I get to the theater. I don’t want to be totally wasted in the theater. That’s a lesson I learned the hard way when I saw “Catwoman.” Who knew Cinemark security guards carried tasers?

We pay the check and head out to drive to the theater. We pull into the parking lot and there’s not a space to be found. The lot is filled with cars. The movie industry takes in at least $100 billion in ticket sales and that’s on a bad year. Can’t they build a parking lot that doesn’t require a Sherpa to get the box office?

We find a spot just on the other side of Haiti and make the long trek to get our tickets. Luckily, he bought ours ahead of time because we hate waiting in line. I’d have a joke about that, but it just makes me too goddamn angry.

My friend’s not thirsty, but I always need a drink for the theater, so I get in line behind a family of blue whales. The father orders a hot dog, nachos and a large drink of lard. The son wants three kinds of candy and a bucket of popcorn with three sticks of butter buried inside them. The mom wants two hot dogs and a cup of the nacho cheese in the Yoplait yogurt pack to pour on the hot dog, a box of Sno Caps to go with the beef jerky in her purse and a small (she emphasized the word “small”) Diet Coke. Yeah, you wouldn’t want to screw up that petite Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade balloon figure lady.

Finally, we get in the theater and the seats are perfect, high and outside, but we’ve still got about 10 minutes to go because of all the pre-screening commercials. There’s nothing that Brokebacks my Mountain harder than movie commercials and it just makes more impatient and edgy. But I’m in the theater, so a giddy feeling of anticipation starts working its way down my stomach. The waiting has been unbearable, but it’s about to pay off.

Then I notice the giddy feeling isn’t stopping at the stomach pit. It’s venturing much farther behind my belly button, down my waist and then it makes a dead stop at my…by the power of Greyskull!

I had to take a leak that dam strength spackle couldn’t hold back. Now, seconds count. It’s the old ticking clock clich© except there’s a bomb in my pants and if I piss under 10 fluid ounces a minute, I blow up. There’s real danger involved because when you rush in the men’s room, there’s room for, shall we say, mishaps.

Let’s just say when I got back to my seat, I was glad the theater went dark for TWO reasons.

Read more articles by Danny Gallagher