Tales of intrigue and amazement from renowned jet setter: Chit Lebaron.
This week Chit and his guide Mobutu journey to Theater 16 in the labyrinthine AMC Multiplex at the Westfield Century City Mall
The smell of popcorn. The feel of cool air conditioning. The taste of Coca-cola. The feel of – shit! Did that one already. Why did I accept Mobuto’s challenge to give examples of all five senses? I don’t have to prove to that human convenience fee I’m his intellectual superior. That he’s glued to his seat watching this insipid “romcom” is proof enough. It’s utterly immaterial that it was I who glued him there.
I ducked in here for respite. After Mobutu and I spent weeks traveling tens of miles from the Valley on Southern California transit, I was light-headed from multiple connecting busses and topless tour vans. I required reviving in a public drinking fountain under the lower spigot for dog bowls. I didn’t mean to massacre the Boston terrier who’d been drinking there but it’s a little thing called survival of the fittest, and that bitch had no Ninja star skills.
Naturally, when the dog’s owner had the gall to accuse me of murder, I threw Mobutu under the bus. It created the perfect diversion for me to wrest a Segway from an annoying granny who was whining at the blood Mobutu was splashing on the bus tires. I had to dodge a great many hot starlets throwing themselves at me on that vagina-magnet but at last I putted to freedom!
It was only through brute Find Your Phone technology that Mobutu located me in this theater. The dizzying ticket and concession prices would have stopped lesser men. But I had a secret weapon: Mobuto’s Bank of N’bob’Tongue-ClickingNoise credit card. I purchased two rows of seats for me and my guests: a herd of unaccompanied teen girls I met at Yogurtland. The card could just handle another 20 orders of popcorn, Sour Patch Kids and Blue Icees before the cashier had to cut it up for insufficient funds. What a senseless waste.
Ahh, at long last, the credits are rolling. One of the teens just told me she and the girls are headed to BJ’s Restaurant – an obvious invitation to mate. In response, I’ve lowered the waistband of my chinos to show her my appendix scar. That’s right, honey. I’ve got the wealth to afford major surgery. Her romantic rejoinder yells have inflamed me further, and prompted Mobutu to stand sans the back of his pants and an expanse of private skin. Why does he always have to embarrass me? In front of this approaching mustachioed gent in an olive-colored uniform, no less. Mmm, I have to admire the Mall Officer’s purposeful stride, a gait that says, “Show me more rich-guy scars and you might just win yourself a tour in my official golf cart.”
Message received, sir! Prepare to view the site where my residual tail was removed at birth.