Waiting In Line For "Momma": a diary from the front lines

Let there be no doubt: I will be the first person who enters the theater where one of the hottest films of the year (and possibly the decade) is showing. To ensure that no other mortal can even come close to matching my unfailing cinematic devotion, I am preparing to camp out in front of the local theater for seven straight days. What follows is my diary from a week spent on the side-walk, waiting in giddy anticipation for the unrivaled genius and glorious splendor of: "Big Momma’s House 2".

Saturday: Day 1

Hell yeah, I am officially on the scene. I was able to choose an ideal spot right beside the front doors of the theater and so far there’s not another Martin Lawrence fan in sight. I fucking rule. I waste no time in getting the tent up and the lawn chair out. My only possessions are: Crackers; 30 cans of aerosol cheese; two advance, customized tickets (I had them professionally bronzed and encrusted with a thick diamond inlay the week before); and, finally, I have a really huge-ass bed pan. To get myself in the spirit of things, I spend most of Saturday paging through my beloved Martin Lawrence scrapbook. Over the course of his career, I’ve managed to cut out roughly 23,000 pictures of him from various newspaper and magazine articles. I tenderly caress each picture and especially enjoy the ones where I have humorously inserted cut-out pictures of myself. I am usually drinking (alone) when I put these together.

Sunday: Day 2

I’ve brought a large hand-made sign along, so I pass most of the day sitting in the lawn chair and holding the poster up to passing cars and pedestrians. The sign reads: “Big Momma's House 2 or Bust! (Or, failing that, Munich).” Periodically I scream, “Whooo!” and/or “Martin Lawrence rocks, bitches!!” When the local news channel stops by to film my vigil, I proudly hold up the sign and make a lot of humping gestures with my pelvis. I am not completely sure why I do this.

Monday: Day 3

It turns out that a tent in the middle of a sidewalk makes a great target for all sorts of things. Throughout the day and night I have been continuously pelted with a truly astonishing assortment of objects: beer bottles, half-eaten sandwiches, rocks, dead birds, shoes, bar stools, human stools, screwdrivers, tire irons and dozens of used, bloody needles. The physical abuse I can deal with, but it’s really the verbal assaults that hurt the most. I mean, I thought I handled the brick to the face pretty well, but when a random passerby muttered that "A Knight’s Tale" sucked like a putrid dog turd …dude, come on. That hurt.

Tuesday: Day 4

I wake up at 3a.m. to find that a homeless person has just urinated on my sleeping bag. I have to throw it away and quickly realize that there are serious downsides to camping out beside a movie theater. For example: the sidewalk is really fucking hard. Resting had been difficult even with the sleeping bag, but now when I lay down it feels like I am being punched by a giant fist. Also, it’s the middle of January and well below freezing, so I am having difficulty staying warm. Tuesday is the toughest day yet, but visions of a grandmotherly Martin Lawrence in a fat suit keep me going.

Wednesday: Day 5

My feet are beginning to show signs of frost bite. My toes are a grayish color and peppered with black spots. On the bright side, I am almost completely numb from the waist down, so there is very little pain. Other notable events: due to a very minor case of hypothermia I spend much of the day hallucinating that I am participating in scenes from the 80’s action-film "Tango and Cash". Only, instead of Sylvester Stallone and Kurt Russell, the film stars Winston Churchill and a size 8 bowling shoe.

Thursday: Day 6

I attempt to burn my hand-made sign for warmth, but to no avail: 9 of 10 toes fall off anyway. I continue to fondle my Martin Lawrence scrapbook and tell anyone who will listen that the under-appreciated "Rebound" was a classic of the sports genre.

Friday: Day 7, Opening Day!

My one remaining toe has fallen off. I am the Ruler of Pluto. Things drastically improve when, at 9a.m., theater employees arrive and begin to arrange new movie titles on the marquee. I don’t immediately see "Big Momma’s House 2" and just assume they are saving the best for last. But when they finish and there is still no "Big Momma", I call the theater manager over and point out the mistake. He informs me that 1. The movie is not showing at this theater and 2. I am possibly the biggest fucktard he has ever seen.

In a panic, I break camp and try to put all of the week’s misery behind me. I frantically hail a cab make my way to the theater across town (where, it turns out, my tickets had originated. The thick layer of bronze and diamonds had simply obscured the correct location). Ecstatic angels sing and the heavens part as I hand in my ticket and quickly find a seat. The projector flickers to life. A hush falls over the crowd (of one). And, within 5 minutes, it becomes crystal clear that "Big Momma’s House 2" is a total piece of shit. The plot is like a bad sitcom as written by a Tourretic monkey with a crack-addled testicle for a brain. Each joke…each painfully unfunny joke… resonates bitterly in my soul, culminating in the most appalling extremes of existential horror. I am not only confused as to why I am seeing this movie...I am no longer sure why I am alive. Delusional and toeless, I leave the theater, too stunned to speak, too disturbed to articulate a coherent response to this prostate-cancer of a film. Realizing, finally, that Martin Lawrence is the unholy spawn of Satan and that my life has been a shallow lie, I burn my scrapbook and wander the streets for hours, muttering to myself over and over, “All is nothing. All is lost.”

I am now utterly convinced that we will go down as the worst fucking species in the history of this desolate shit-hole of a planet. May god fuck your immortal soul, Martin Lawrence...may God fuck us all.