For the second time in as many weeks, I nearly got into a fist-fight last night.
I haven’t actually gotten in a fist-fight for many years, because I’m a grown-up, and all that – but last night, I was totally ready to get into it. I honestly don’t remember the last time I was so angry.
The embarrassing thing was, the offender was a punk kid. Maybe nineteen or twenty years old. (I’m thirty-five.) I didn’t know he was just a boy until my blood was already up, though.
This is what happened:
Last night, I went to see Jack Black’s Nacho Libre, which was fecking awesome. It was marred by one thing, though.
About halfway through, a cellphone rang. “Great,” I thought. “What dumbass forgot to turn their phone off?” Then, something incredible happened. After three rings, instead of being silenced and turned off, the phone was answered. By some twatwaffle in the first row.
This obnoxious fucking cockbiscuit then goes on in an extremely loud voice (to ensure that his caller can hear him over the Dolby soundtrack of Friar Ignacio attempting to seduce the lovely Sister Incarnacia with his smooth moves and fancy new threads) about what he’s doing at the moment, who Jack Black is, and the possible itinerary for the remainder of the night after the movie is finished.
The oblivious little asspastry is not at all mindful of the quiet sounds of disapproval being exchanged between theatre patrons all around him, so after a minute or two, I addressed him directly, at the same volume he was using: “Oh, fuck off.” No response or change. I sit there for ten or twenty more seconds while he continues his conversation, and the rage rises quickly. I can feel it pounding in my head.
I can’t take it. There’s no-one between me and the aisle, and I get up and walk around to the front to have a word with him. As I’m making my way over, I see two more people get up, and figure they’re doing the same thing – but they make for the back of the theatre. When I face the guy, I see he’s wearing the suburban punk wannabe-gangsta uniform of big pants, sports jersey, and dink hat.
I bent down close to him and and said, “Turn your phone off now and watch the movie, or get the fuck out of here.”
He looked up and said, (apparently perplexed,) “What? It’s my phone.”
I was nearly apoplectic. While I tried to process what I had just heard, (did the kid honestly have no idea that he was annoying the people around him?) a guy in the row behind him appeared to decide the guy was retarded or something and explain it in simple terms: “What you are doing is very rude. Hang it up or take it to the lobby.” There follows a chorus of affirmation and assent.
The arrogant cuntbagel turned around and repeated, (with a helpful change of emphasis,) “It’s my phone.”
Now my fist was tightly-balled and dearly wanted (pathetic fallacy or no) to strike his nose in such a way as to drive nasty little bits of cartilage into his skull to float around in his cerebral fluid. I grabbed his jersey at the collar, twisted a bit, and said “Turn your phone off now or I’ll drag you out of here and break your fucking arm.” Another guy, sitting directly behind him, added, “I’ll hold you down while he does it.”
He said (into his phone,) “I’ll call you back,” and hung up. I walked back to my seat and sat down. My heart was pounding. Holy shit. I realized that I had totally lost my cool, and apologized to me friend, who said, “No, it’s not just you.” Some consolation. As I’m sitting there and trying to turn my attention back to the movie, the manager or someone (obviously summoned by the people who had gotten up at the same time I did,) walked down to the front and started craning his neck looking around for the offender. Numerous fingers in the audience pointed toward the glanspudding in the front row, and the manager looked at him for a bit and then walked away.
Moments after he walked away, though – out comes the phone again. The fucking little sackomelette is holding his phone about a foot in front of his face and continuing his conversation by texting. He’s got a Motorola Razr or one of its imitators, and the backlit LCD screen is massive and hugely distracting.
By now, though, I’m chagrined by my behaviour, and just try to ignore it. It’s at least somewhat easier to ignore than one half of a loud conversation, but it continues to be annoying, throughout the entire movie.
It bothers me to reflect that if I’d just sat in my seat and kept as cool as possible, the clitbanger might have been ejected – or at the very least, the same end would have been reached, with him clueing in and stopping (the worst of) his obnoxious behaviour.
On the other hand, I think it might be better for people like that to know that if they pull that shit there’s a chance that people around them may drag them outside and kick their fucking teeth in, instead of the mere possibility that an obsequious man in a suit might ask them to wrap up their conversation.