Who’s on first?

With summer comes some of the coolest movies, and Jenn and I we’re lucky enough to score Nana Donna as a sitter last weekend to go see Pirates at the local theater.

This is the second time we’ve gotten to go to this particular theater since we’ve moved to St. Chuck. Personally, movie theaters are like hair stylist—once you’ve found one that doesn’t screw things up to bad, you stick with it. We had a great one in Downtown St. Louis, with plush leather couches and drinks in real glasses, but since we now live about 45 minutes out from the city, we needed to find something a little closer to home. For the most part, the Mega-Screen at the Galaxy 14 does just fine.

The only real problem I had with the place was the service. Both times we’ve gone we’ve had this mentally challenged girl as the ticket gatekeeper, collecting her stub-toll before we enter the theater.

Each time she’s been sitting on a chair off to the side, a good twenty-five feet away from her post. Now, that may not seem like a big deal to you, but it takes her nearly a full minute to get to said post, another twenty seconds to lotion up her hands, ten to shoot me a look of consternation as she scrutinizes the validity of the tickets, thirty more seconds to chastise the children behind us for swinging on the red roping, and god only knows how long to rip the tickets and mumble something about how we’re running SO late that she doesn’t know if we’ll find a seat together.

Fuck you slow-ass-ticket-troll. (Oh, stop looking so offended. She started it.)

So it made me think, can you complain about the handicapped? Do you come across like a total douche if you say something to her boss?

I could just imagine the conversation going something like this:

Me: “That girl out front is really slow.”

Theater Manager: “Mentally challenged.”

Me: “No, I mean she needs to be quicker.”

Theater Manager: “You mean less slow?”

Me: “Exactly.”

Theater Manager: “Sir, I’m not sure how you could suggest she be less handicapped…”

Me: What? No, I mean she is…”

Theater Manager: “Impaired? Afflicted? Not right in the head?”

Me: “This is retarded…”