The other day I went to go see a movie in an actual movie theatre. I should not even have to qualify that statement with "actual" because yes, movie theatres are a place LOTS of people still frequent all the time; I am going to take assumption that you can infer what I meant before I chose to qualify it unnecessarily. Those who still find themselves moseying on over to the ole theatre, are what I consider elite because we pay upwards $15 a pop to watch Amy Schumer's sexual follies. Anyways, the story here starts with me going to the movies like any old bloke, alright? Enough contradictory over-inflated philosophy & lexicon.
Listen to this, right off the bat, I did not even get carded to watch a R-Rated feature. The bumbling, apathetic booth attendant did me a real solid because the time it would have taken me to fish out my California and/or New York ID is about the same amount of time it would take me to go to the market next door for some theatre contraband. I cannot even remember a time ever when anyone in the army of bumbling, apathetic theatre employees ever checked mine (or anyone's) IDs in addition to their bags for outside snacks. Funny, because at this rate there must be more movie theatre shootings than Snickers and Shasta hoarding pre-teens...that is a discussion for another time. Anyhow, men, women and nightcrawlers alike schlep movie totes filled with anything from popcorn and candy to full blown lobster dinners because we may be elite enough to buy an inflated movie ticket but Jesus, we aren't the 1%. I am not in the business of buying $45 hot dogs and there is no way in hell Regal Cinemas would ever abide by the Poor Relief Act of 1601.
So yeah, now that I discovered I had some extra time, I went next door to Westside Market which is now on the East Side as well- who knows what that's all about? Immediately, I was doused in sensory overload. I felt as if Mensa had stocked the store as some sort of societal-consumership experiment. Sushi and Deli Meats were prepared behind the same counter, chips were hanging and cascading from the rafters and there was cheese everywhere I turned. It was as if I was riding the Tube and every single person was in fact wearing Burberry Khaki Trench Coats- a glitch in the Matrix. Amongst the chaos, I am making darty eye contact with my fellow vigilantes; We are all searching for the best snacks- crunchy but not too loud, sweet but not sickening, and cheap (at least cheaper than our original offerings). At this rate, I am already missing Jason Bateman trailer #1. God knows: I DO NOT WANT TO MISS ANY MORE JASON BATEMAN TRAILERS. I needed to make a swift decision. That is when it happened; I found through the Bristol rubble and noise my Prairie Home Companion: The most fucking British chips that have ever existed.
I did not even taste these chips to know, I just knew how fucking British these chips were going to be. I do not even have an affinity for British paraphernalia but I knew it would be an utter mistake if I did not partake in the most fucking British thing there ever was. I am not talking British things we all know like Scotch Eggs, Earl Grey tea, the abuse of "Keep Calm and Carry On", this is spiritual.
If the essence of Great Britain could be captured, if you could imagine how Great Britain tastes and feels, it is these chips and I am the only one who knows this. I do not want anyone else to catch wind of my discovery so I coyly grab a bag of $27 beef jerky and Lufftwaffe-free German Raspberries- just your average grocery store purchase. Nobody asserts suspicion. I am about to miss a Kevin Hart trailer so I head out without taking my change.