Winnie the Poo (No, I didn’t misspell it)

I took Luke to see Winnie the Pooh yesterday with some friends. Thankfully, it was short because I hate Winnie the Pooh with everything that I have. I could give you a descriptive breakdown of each character and their tragic flaws, but suffice it to say I could punch every one of them in the face and not feel bad about it. There’s nothing worse than a whiner. Take a Prozac already, Eeyore because I don’t want to hear it. As for the most pointless character award, that goes to Piglet. I won’t ruin the ending for you, not because I’m a nice person, but because you should have to sit through the same shit I did.

You get my drift. I dislike the whole idea of Winnie the Pooh, but I sacrificed for my kid because he loves that bear (and because I knew it was only one hour and nine minutes long). Despite my role as martyr, I found a way to amuse myself.
We couldn’t see a movie without popcorn, so I approached the counter and was greeted by a neatly dressed metrosexual gentleman. I ordered our snacks, and whipped out my wallet to pay. “Sorry about all these ones,” I said. “I’m an exotic dancer.” His eyes shifted from the cash register to me, then to Luke, and back to the register. His uninterested silence had called my bluff. “Not really,” I said feeling dejected. “I just had a yard sale.” I suddenly felt like Baby in Dirty Dancing after announcing to Patrick Swayze that she had “carried a watermelon”. He finally opened his mouth to say, “Mmmkay, thanks.”
So I get it. My joke wasn’t appropriate for the orientation of the audience, and maybe my joke wasn’t funny at all, but it had taken my mind off of what was to come for the next hour and nine minutes of my life. I took solace in that. The extra buttered popcorn didn’t hurt either.