Open Letter.

AN OPEN LETTER TO PEOPLE WHO INSIST UPON COMING TO UNITED ARTIST AND ACTING LIKE THEY OWN THE ESTABLISHMENT, WHO INSIST UPON OPENING THE SIDE DOORS THAT CLEARLY SAY ‘ENTER THROUGH FRONT DOORS’ WHICH ARE CONVIENTLY LOCKED, TO THOSE OLD LADIES WHO MAKE MESSES THAT LOOKS LIKE SATAN HAD A HOUSE PARTY.


Dear Patrons,

What is wrong with you? It’s a simple thing to do, respect where you are, pay attention, and not act like self centered old bags.

I would, however, like to thank you for keeping me employed. With out your lack of respect for the fact that people do indeed have to clean up after you, I wouldn’t be making minimum wage. One question I would like to as is; what exactly happens in those movie theaters? What happens to those old ladies who are sugar coated, but have a core of death? Do they turn into demonic toddlers and spew their goodies all over the floor?

Speaking of the floor, after the movies, it gets in a horrible state. Once freshly popped popcorn that would have been delicious…not so much after they have been chomped upon and dropped onto the floor, only to be devoured up by the sticky sweet soda they so insisted upon getting. Now on the floor, lays this puddle of delightful agony, is soda corn. Almost good enough to eat off the floor. Almost.

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Oh, my job gets better. Often times, I work I the box office. It’s sort of like Satan’s time out corner. The space is about 10X5 with gargantuan glass windows. The only connection you have with the outside world is the small glass window that isn’t even twelve inches by twelve inches. You don’t want to open the window, it’s depressing. People hand you money that you can’t have, and when the tickets cost too much, they screech and yell like howler monkeys. Or when you’re, ever so quickly, ripping the tickets they give you numerous ticket cuts. It’s like little death spores on my finger. Oh and then those people who insist upon leaning too close to the speakerphone and talking at the top of their voice. I’m not over the hill like you; I haven’t even started to climb it yet. So just back up, take a deep breath, and take a zanex, before you have a stroke.

Those doors! THOSE LOCKED DOORS! They have a sign on them for a reason! NOOOOO! The sound of pulling locked doors! They can’t just walk up to the side doors and read the sign that, oh so conveniently, says “Please enter through side door”. They couldn’t just accept the fact that the doors were locked. Determined to get their tickets, they place their grimy hands on the locked handles and pull with all their might. Not once. Not twice. Always, ALWAYS, three times. It doesn’t help that the sound echoes throughout the room, causing me to wish I could turn into the hulk and proceed inform you that those doors are locked.

For future reference…you keep me employed, so I appreciate that, although I wish that while on your demonic rampages you wouldn’t decide to torture the poor minimum wage employees who have to deal with people like you all day

Love,
Melanie

Post Script- Thanks for leaving money on the floor. Tips are greatly appreciated.