freddy von dammage (stopofficer) wrote in bastardpeople,
freddy von dammage

the theater smashup lack

So I'm at work, and me and my theater pals are milling about, chomping on popcorn and the like. The movie house biz is a job made for sloth, you serve a bunch of old couples medium popcorns and a pair ol' diet cokes, and you're set for about another coupla hours. Rest of the time, we read Spin (it's the only mag they've got, alas), raid the candy stock, and debate over Ben Affleck--dudes, he was verging on cool territory with his Michael J. bits on The Daily Show, no? And in the case of the boyos, avidly discuss their whacking off habits. I've also learned the ways of the "Donkey Punch" and "Hot Karl", porn-style. Where was HBO in all of this? So it's a pretty nice time behind the concessions stand. But oh fuck, does the butter stench just sink into your skin. It's like I took a bath in milkfat and let myself curdle. Or whatever. And dude. When you're wearing your dorky two-sizes too big uniform and smellin like a cardiac arrest waiting to happen, the pick-ups are few and far between. Like, hey baby, wanna watch me milk a cow? I'll pass.

Anyhow. Today's the A Capella CHAMPIONSHIPS, as so many lamers informed me. Dude, hot tip. Don't tell me you're here for a "Championship" when all you're gonna do is make like a barbershop quartet and rip into some sweet sweet harmonizing courtesy of the BACKSTREET BOYS. Holy fuck. Apparently a capella translates into a bunch of wannabe sorority girls and boys in cowl neck sweaters. Seriously. What's up with that? CHAMPIONSHIP. I'd rather toss in my lot with a fuckin' curling match.

Okay. So back to square one: we're standing around, a pack of maroon-shirt kids, and this dude walks in. He's a rather weaselly looking fellow, with a broomstick build and scraggly goatee...actually, it looks kinda like an unfinished lanyard of some sort.

He walks in, and steps up to the counter: "Hi, my name's La La, but you can call me Santy Claus. Where's the biggity-athroom?"
Cue workers: "Scuse me?"
"The biggity-athroom. I wanna get high from marijuana. Do you wanna get high? Get high? POT!"
The biggity-athroom. Christ.
The best part's when he's slouching down all lonesome like in some corner. And my manager goes up and asks him if he's with the singers. He says he's waiting for his friends, and that she (my manager) is harassing him, which she has "no right". So what does boy genius do? He whips out his wallet, puts it next to his ear, mumbles, and proceeds to tell the manager, "You'd better watch out. I just called the cops and told 'em you're sexually harassing me. They're gonna come any minute." Dude, come on. His wallet's clearly a turtle-com in disguise, and whoa baby! Leo's gonna slash you up, sucka! And my manager's all, "Sexual harassment! Did you LOOK at him?! DID YOU SEE?!" Hah.

Biggity-athroom. Dude. Don't make me get all fuctit in yo'shiznit, you diggity dig?
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