On Saturday night, Jeff and I saw Date Night. On a date night.
We are obviously super original.
It wasn't as bad as I thought it might be, except that in the theater with us were a bunch of thirteen year-olds. You know how male peacocks display their iridescent feathers for prospective female mates? Well, thirteen year-old boys are like that, except instead of showing their plumage they talk loud during movies. They yell out single words, like "Breast!" or make loud, excited loogie noised like they are Al Pacino in Scent of A Woman.
I wanted to put them in their place. I mean, A) I wanted to be like, Why are you even seeing this movie? It's for old people like us. Isn't there some Judd Apatow bonerfest you could be watching? Or something with vampires?
And B) Nobody who has ever seen a real boob yells the word "Breast." Be cool, man. Jesus.
Luckily I was kind of drunk from dinner and also totally focused on picking out all of the green Sour Patch Kids, otherwise those young whippersnappers would have gotten a piece of my mind.