Marquee Theater can kiss my ass

Posted on by Raoul Duke

My day at the Marquee theater:

  • Empty your pockets?  WTF?
  • TSA pat down from a chick?  WTF?
  • ID?  WTF?
  • 70 people showed up.  The speaker  volume was set for (or to) 1,000.
  • 20 security guards, so the Paul Blart ratio was 1:4.
  • $6 for a warm cup of Land Shark?  WTF?

The most ridiculous part?  There are four parking rows leading to the exit.  We’re in 2.  Cant get out that way – Chained. Lane 1?  Chained.

Lane3?  Chained.

Lane4?  Chained.

Lane5?  Nope, (still) blocked by a fucking temporary fence.

Raoul/Lurlene: How THE FUCK do we get out?  We would like to go drink reasonably priced beer, fuck like monkeys and hear ourselves think, please.
$8/hr attendant:  Duh.  The way you came in.
R/L:  You mean Row #2?  The one with the fucking chain?  The one we came in through TWO HOURS AGO (before the chain went up)
Attendant:  There is no spoon chain
*nonchalantly walks over to signal the bone heads who don”t answer their radio page to move the fucking chain*
Attendant. Bet you $100 I am right and it is clear.  [Now]

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When I came to, the general back-alley ambiance of the suite was so rotten, so incredibly foul. How long had I been lying there? All these signs of violence. What had happened? There was evidence in this room of excessive consumption of almost every type of drug known to civilized man since 1544 AD. What kind of addict would need all these coconut husks and crushed honeydew rinds? Would the presence of junkies account for all these uneaten french fries? These puddles of glazed ketchup on the bureau? Maybe so. But then why all this booze? And these crude pornographic photos smeared with mustard that had dried to a hard yellow crust? These were not the hoofprints of your average God-fearing junkie. It was too savage. Too aggressive.