By Murf Geelhoed
That’s right. I have a Ziploc bag near full of Act II Butter popcorn hidden at the bottom my canvas sack at this very moment. And I fully intend on opening it as soon as the theater is dimmed and the opening titles begin to roll on the big screen. Indeed, I have taken note of the highly visible sign near the box office that reads, “No Carry-Ins Allowed.” I have also taken note that the price of a small tub of popcorn here at Roger’s Cineplex is reaching four dollars. Roger, your kernels must be made out of fool’s gold because I certainly don’t think a small tub of popcorn kernels should cost almost the amount of a pair of C batteries or a 4 pack of razor blades. There’s gotta be only what? Two? Three cups of corn max in the tub?
Ticket prices are already reaching seven dollars for a matinee, you expect viewers to whip out another four big ones for a small sample of popcorn? And another three for a kid’s size Dr. Pepper soda and yet another two for Sno Caps? Simply put, I refuse to pay such an exorbitant amount for basic snack foods during my visit to the Cineplex. And I’ll be damned if I’m going to sit through one hundred and twenty minutes of The Bucket List not crunchin’ on one popped kernel after another.
Which is why I brought my own bag. Popped right at home in my very own microwave, sealed safely inside a Ziploc baggie and hidden carefully at the bottom of my sack underneath some Kleenex, a bottle of Dr. Brown’s Ginger Ale, and a Steno pad incase I want to jot down any funny quotes throughout the movie to use on my friends and family later tonight.
I’m going to enjoy my contraband popcorn throughout the entire two hours of watching Jack Nicholson and that black fellow from Shawshank Redemption jump out of airplanes, downhill ski and drive an Indy stock cars before they die. In fact, I might even make a game out of it. Every time the black guy says something reassuring or insightful I will eat a kernel of my delicious, free popcorn. I have a feeling that nearing the thirty minute mark most of my baggie will be gone and I will have had my sufficiency in delicious, cheap Act II Butter brand popcorn.
And when that happens I will look over at the other suckers in the movie theater, munchin’ away on their expensive movie theater popcorn like the fools they are. Wiping their greasy hands on their jeans like it’s no matter. “That grease was probably worth fifty cents, I’ll have you know!” I will want to shout but won’t at the risk of getting escorted out of this box office hit.
The credits will roll, I’ll fold up my empty Ziploc bag and put it back in the bottom of my sack, only to be refilled again the next time I want to enjoy a hit comedy about death and some poppin’ corn without having to break the bank.