You show your little low-production pre-movie video claiming victory as the only movie theater in town that uses real butter -- and I am not making this up; they truly and unblinkingly take up valuable screen time to play the we-use-real-butter card -- and you furthermore claim that you have the lowest snack prices in town, but how do you give change back for those low snack prices? WITH $2 BILLS AND 50¢ PIECES.
WHO DOES THAT? I'll tell you who. DICKS. That's who.
$2 BILLS. AND 50¢ PIECES. TOGETHER. AT THE SAME TIME. DICKS.
You actively condemn your real-but-I-don't-trust-you-now-so-I-don't-believe-it's-actually-real-butter-eating customers to walk the earth carrying not one but TWO pieces of unusable pariah currency that nobody uses and nobody wants and everybody actually takes a step away from you if you so much as mention that you maybe possibly oh-I-wish-you-were-jokingly have in your possession in an old faintly-lavender-scented envelope in a Trilby box in your probably haunted attic behind the wax cylinders for your great-grandmother's burnished walnut phonograph. And do you know why that envelope is faintly-lavender-scented? Because it held the birthday card you got in 1971 when you were three from your great grandmother who wore so damn much lavender-scented Rose Milk that everything she touched reeked eternally of it, including the birthday-card envelope she gave you in 1971 that contained a $2 bill that you haven't been able to get rid of for 46 years.
And now YOU, Collins Road Theatres with your pretentious European "-re" spelling that doesn't distract anyone from the fact that you actually live in a strip mall next to the Michael's where you bought the broken rope lights for your strip-mall sign, have tied not one but TWO pariah-currency albatrosses around my neck and thrown me hogtied and helpless into an imploding Trump economy that won't even trade in rational thought, much less long-dead currencies used only by long-dead great grandmothers.
And now I'M suddenly forced to be the dick who has to sneakily by the dark of cheap tealights pass off your dick money to some poor next-dick-in-line waiter who will then curse me with the fury of a thousand faintly-lavender-scented great grandchildren as the cycle of perpetual dickdom keeps spinning faster and faster forward to its socioeconomically catastrophic conclusion.
And if there are any survivors, they'll rise dusty and coughing from the ashy carnage, stumble haltingly toward each other collectively ashamed by their complicitness in the devastation, and eventually, triumphantly join together in raising their voices as one to call you a DICK.