Back! This is a momentous update, if only because it returns to the roots of what this site was supposed to be based on: ranting. Pretty early on I discovered that since I was such an easy going guy, I got mad very infrequently and thus had little to rant about. Hence the turn of focus to comedy pages, whether they be novel excerpts, horrendously-drawn cartoons, screenplays I wrote with my sister when I was in grade seven, or mostly fake movie reviews. Today I present to you an actual rant: a series of things that, over the course of three or four years spent working at a movie theatre, have become the equivalent to a swift, hard kick to David Banner's groin. And by that, I mean that the following things make David Banner's groin hurt.
What theatre? / Where is my theatre?
Before I started working at the local cinema, I had no idea so many blind and/or illiterate people went to see a movie every night. At least, I assume that's the reason why people need to be told over and over what theatre their movie is in, and where that theatre is located. I've always held the belief that if you're stupid enough to need to ask us where to go to see your movie, you don't deserve to see it. They're told the number of the theatre by both the box office person, and the usher at the podium. On top of that, the number of the theatre is written in two places on the ticket, and the bloody poster for the damn movie is displayed outside of the theatre it's playing in. So even if you missed that episode of Seasame Street where they covered the number 3, you can just walk down the hall until you see the fucking picture of your movie on the wall, with lots of those funny-looking symbols on it.
As far as people who ask us where theatre X is, they are perfect evidence for a new eugenics movement. There's a giant fucking sign, about three feet square, outside each auditorium with a giant number on it. Unsurprisingly enough, this number coresponds with the number of the theatre it is beside. Even if you somehow manage to miss the giant sign, that same number is painted not once, not twice, but three times on the wall, once again right outside the appropriate auditorium. And if you somehow amazingly manage, despite all odds, to miss those too, the theatres are arranged in numerical sequence, so the number four auditorium will be THE FOURTH ONE DOWN.
Trying to Use Debit at Concession
Once again, a case of stupid people not bothering to use their damn eyes and look. Our concession stand doesn't accept debit cards because we need to keep lines moving quickly, and as we all know idiots using debit always hold up whatever line they're in. All of the cash registers have a sign on the front that says we don't accept debit or credit cards. There are two giant signs, right beside the menu boards that everyone so intently studies, that clearly read "CASH ONLY". And you'd think the fact that we clearly have no debit machines in sight, and no numberpad thingy to use, would tend to indicate that we don't have them. Yet everyday there's at least half a dozen idiots that try to pay with debit, and are shocked when informed that they can't. But why? Are there multiple signs throughout the building saying that they can't? Yes. Are there any debit machines in sight/existence? No. Are they expecting us to perform a magic trick and make the machine appear in a puff of smoke when they present their card? Because as much as I'd like to be coworkers with Penn and Teller, they're busy doing stage shows in Las Vegas and setting hookers on fire (for real, that is, in their spare time).
REAL Butter
You can always tell when a customer is from Toronto when they order popcorn and make sure to ask for either "topping" or "REAL butter". What the hell does real butter mean? Is there forgery butter that I'm not aware of? A counterfeit butter ring operating out of our staff room? We have one kind of butter: butter. Pure, ordinary butter. We have margarine in case anyone wants it, but since both butter and margarine are free and our margarine is crap, no one wants it. In fact, we keep the margarine in a dusty broken dispenser at the far end of the stand, and it has to be ladeled out with a spoon because we don't even bother putting a pump in it. We try to avoid using it as much as possible; ergo we get annoyed when someone asks for the margarine. Therefore, the people who make sure to ask for REAL butter are fucking idiots because not only is it free just like the margarine, but we hate having to go get the margarine anyway. That's like going to the Gap and saying "I'd like a pair of REAL pants, please" as though there's some sort of fake pants that the employees are going to try to spring on you.
People also seem to have great difficulty grasping the concept of extra butter. As you might expect, a standard serving of butter is only on top, while extra butter has one halfway down. So why do people ask for extra butter (thus indicating their desire to have it layered), then add "Oh, and can you also layer it?" The answer is, of course, that they're fucking idiots. But it's also because they see that our popcorn which is cooked in YELLOW oil with YELLOW salt is yellow, and moronically assume that the popcorn is already buttered, even though the brain-dead love child of Paris Hilton and Jessica Simpson would realise that we wouldn't ask every person if they wanted butter if it was already buttered.
"But I can't eat that much"
I hate this phrase. I loathe it. Every time I hear it, I want to go punch a kitten to death. And that adds up to like, 15 kittens getting killed a day, and I think the SPCA is onto me. Here's the deal: while we're paid a standard wage, we can also earn a bonus commission that is dependent on two things: the number of combos we sell, and the number of small drinks/popcorns we sell. Depending on the number of smalls sold in the pay period (less is obviously better), we get X cents per combo. I'm sure the math majors among you have by now discovered that I will make more money if I sell fewer smalls and more combos.
So, when someone comes up to me and asks for two small drinks and a small popcorn, I inform them that the combo of two medium drinks and a large popcorn is not only more of everything, but also almost two dollars cheaper. This is a situation where everyone would win: they'd be getting more stuff for less money, and I'd be making more money by replacing three small sales with a combo. But what is their response? That's right, "But I can't eat that much". To which I reply, "It doesn't matter if you can't eat it all. You don't have to eat it all. In fact, you could eat a single kernel of popcorn and throw the rest away, and you'd still be saving two dollars over what you're ordering now." Actually, that's not what I say, that's what I think. What I actually do is go in the back room and start punching. Either way, they stubbornly refuse to let me save them money, and my faith in humanity drops a bit lower.
Reese's Pieces
This one isn't hard to figure out. Reese's Peanut Butter Cups and Reese's Pieces are two different things. It's not difficult to tell them apart. The former was around for over half a century before the latter, and yet every idiot refers to the peanut butter cups as Reese's Pieces. So I hand them a box of Reese's Pieces, which is what they asked for, and they look at me like I'm an idiot and say "No, the Reese's Pieces", while pointing to a package of peanut butter cups. Or sometimes they'll mix things up by saying "Can I have the Reese's Pieces Cups?" As they walk away I pray that they have an undiagnosed peanut allergy.
Ordering Concession Items from New York Fries/Yogen Fruz
Our concession stand has five cash registers, spanning its length. At the end there is a considerable gap, and on the other side is a Yogen Fruz stand (formerly New York Fries) with one register. A number of things change at this point: the menus on the wall change from the standard popcorn/fountain drink fare to exclusively Yogen Fruz items; there is a giant neon sign above the register reading Yogen Fruz; the register itself even sports a Yogen Fruz sign. Bearing these things in mind, imagine you are a customer wanting to purchase some popcorn and pop. You notice several very long lines at the concession stand, but wait! There's an empty register way over nowhere near the popcorn and pop machines, but rather located (for clearly an unrelated reason) in front of the Yogen Fruz machine! Clearly everyone else waiting in these lines is an idiot, and has simply failed to notice what is obviously an empty concession register. You confidently strut over to the cashier and bark out your order, and when informed that you will, in fact, have to stand in line like everyone else, you react as though you've just been informed that the Commies have grabbed all your civil liberties and made off like bandits. You're a taxpayer, dammit, and I have no right to not serve you before everyone else who's been waiting, on a cash register that is incapable of processing your order! This is when I punch you in the face.
The people who yell at me when I tell them I can only do Yogen orders on the Yogen register always say the same thing: "Well, I don't understand why you can't sell other things here". And I believe them, as I'm sure there's many things in the world that they don't understand, such as basic mathematics and perhaps the intricate plot twistings of a Teletubbies episode. If they were to bother thinking about it, they would realise that a cash register has a finite amount of buttons on it, and thus cannot support all of the requisite buttons to process both Yogen Fruz and concession orders. The worst case of this type of idiocy was when I was working at New York Fries and a woman ordered a Combo #1, then stood and watched me for three minutes as I prepared her french fries, and only when I finally set them down in front of her and quoted the price said "No, I wanted the popcorn." She was unable to explain to me why she hadn't made this clear three minutes earlier, and I was unable to explain to the police how the blood had gotten on my hands.
"IT'S NOT VANILLA!!!"
This is the weirdest thing that's ever happened to me at work, and the following account is not exaggerated in any way. Our Yogen Fruz also serves ice cream, and an old man asked me for a cone of vanilla ice cream. Our vanilla (which is called "Superhero Vanilla") is dyed red, yellow and blue in an effort to make it more visually appealing and kid-friendly. It is, however, most definitely still vanilla flavoured, despite the history of vanilla things being traditionally white (which is somewhat confusing considering that vanilla is actually dark brown). Upon seeing the red/blue/yellow ice cream, the man said: "That's not vanilla." I then informed him that it was, just dyed bright colours for marketing reasons. He still insisted that it was not vanilla. I showed him the label on the ice cream tub, and invited him to taste some himself if he didn't believe me. At this point he was becoming quite angry, and said "I don't need to taste it! I'm sixty-seven years old, and I know that's NOT VANILLA!"
I was about to lose it and take the old geezer to the parking lot, so I went to the office and got the manager, Russell. He came out and tried to convince the guy that it was vanilla, but he just kept getting angrier and angrier. By now he was furiously pounding his fist on the counter and he just kept repeating "I'M SIXTY-SEVEN, AND THAT'S NOT VANILLA!" Facing with this situation, Russell did what any cool, level-headed manager would do: he ran back to the office and locked himself inside, leaving me to deal with the idiot. I told him to either take the vanilla ice cream or leave, as he was holding up the line. He decided to change to pralines and cream, and as he was leaving I wished him a good night. His response was "Thanks for nothing. Have a good life." I love my job.
That's all for now. Due to my yearly summer hiatus, I have a few articles already written and ready to go, so expect a triple-whammy posting in the next few days. If you're reading this, thanks for sticking in there while I was gone. If you're not reading this, I congratulate you on your remote viewing skills, and suggest you seek employment with the secret division of the military (even though that Ben Kingsley movie was awful).
