It is my day off from children, from patients, and I wanna smell popcorn and I enter the movie theatre. I am a regular participant of the film genre experience and to prove this I signed up for their latest new deal program which allows me $10 free movie credits for every $100 spent. Today I spent my fourth allotment of free bucks demonstrating that I have handed this establishment $400 in the very recent past, the program starting in June. Okay, it also includes those overpriced nachos and milk duds.
I park my car next to Bubba's silver van. Bubba is a large man, I would estimate between 350 and 400 pounds although I am not good at guessing massive human weights and he sells the tickets. He appears to be in his late thirties, a local high school ring on his finger and the previous movie company that owned this theatre allowed him to wear a "Bubba" name tag but the new nationally known proprieter requires him to wear a "Robert" name tag, his God-given. He is such a Bubba but his personality hovers somewhere between a soggy dishrag and cream of mushroom soup.
The kids and I have a running comedy log on this man. He begs to be laughable. Earlier this week we were there to see Cowboys and Aliens and I said, let's look in Bubba's car, I bet there's lots of fast food wrappers. And there were but imagine my surprise when I saw an opened box of Trojans on the floor of the front seat.
Trojans, my voice queries upward, Trojans? What, grandma? Nothing, nothing.
It's good to know that fat guys get to have sex. The cowboy doesn't understand my love of film, especially when I watch the same DVD over and over. It is like walking on the beach . . . something different imprints itself on your brain each time. Like most men Dave appreciates a good car chase and bare female skin, the more the better. I require dialogue, character development and interesting scenery and then I am happy. It doesn't hurt if Woody Allen's name is somewhere in the credits. Or well-chiseled male buttocks, either or, I am not made of stone.