The Youth of America, or Is That What Kids are Calling It These Days?

The car has been towed. The paper has been handed in. The red food coloring is not far behind, and I’m using proper punctuation and capitalization rules again, so we’re all happy.

So this weekend…

Three twentysomething girls set out in a car for the movies, after I’d finished about a 20 second shower, put on one black sock (my own possession) and one pink polka dotted-sock belonging to my gracious roommate but matching my hot pink shirt. Hell yeah. We arrived a mere five minutes late after sprinting through 200 yards of asphalt parking lot to arrive at the King of Prussia All-Stadium Cineplex, with probably 12 theaters. [read: this is no back-alley hole in the wall breeding ground for sketchiness. It’s suburban Pennsylvania, for god’s sake].

After tickets and popcorn, I was 12 bucks poorer, and we burst in the back door of the theater. The movie in question was “Win A Date With Tad Hamilton” [read: we didn’t go to a fucking porn movie; it wasn’t even rated R], and as it is quite the popular film these days, most of the seats were occupied. As the credits began to roll, we searched out seats in the dark, finding a nice half-empty row three rows back from the front of the theater, placing Topher Grace directly above our heads, distorted yet still *so* cute. Swoon. We note that there isn’t much free space, and observe two high school aged youths scurry back and forth like rats in the second row, just in front of us. Did I say rats? I meant rabbits. “Oh, cute, they’re gossiping with their little friends” we think, and smile indulgently. Several scenes later, I notice out of the corner of my eye that they’re making out. Still finding this amusing, I lean over and mention to my moviegoing peers Kaitlyn and Liz what’s going on one row in front of us, one aisle over. Movie continues, as does the make out session [read: dry humping] until we realize by degrees that not only has male adolescent removed his own shirt, but his female counterpart’s corresponding outergarment. Are you kidding? Who takes their clothes off in a movie theater, and a crowded one at that? We cease to be amused.

Not only is this mildly disgusting in those nasty used movie seats, but the little twerp’s skinny white chest was reflecting the glow from the movie screen into our eyes. This was not to be tolerated. Some sort of “hooking up” [read: partial exchange of bodily fluids] had been going on for full on 30 minutes when Liz suggested that a well-aimed projectile might instill a little dignity in them. I reach for the popcorn, but all we had left were crumbs. By now things had progressed to a point well beyond the standards of public decency [read: she was straddling him, I could see her bra from 20 yards, and more than half of his arm/head region was under her shirt] so the champion of moviegoers everywhere, Kaitlyn Luther, goes over at our request to tell them “Do you know that people can see you?” At least they put their clothing back on.

I’ve never made out in a movie theater, although I know a few perfectly respectable people who have engaged in said activity. I don’t know what’s wrong with the youth of America today, but in MY day, we sure as hell kept our pants on. And shirts. And shoes, generally speaking.

The remainder of the movie was quite enjoyable, although I’m a little ashamed to admit that a few tears were shed at the end. Hey, it was cute, give me a break. As we left for the car, Liz mused whether it was the movie that was so fun, or the drama that was played out in front of the screen. Art mirroring life, mirroring art? Yeah, or something Dada like that. The walk back to the station wagon was cold, I slipped on my ass getting in and have acquired a purple elbow (damn black ice), but well worth the overall experience of the evening. I [heart] self-righteous moralizing.

Good weekend =). I also made the best cylinder in class on Sunday, made my fucking day. And we just won’t *talk* about Monday.

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