If you have ever wanted to make an estimate of how many people will be in Hell, let me help–start by counting the landlords, insurance agencies, and movie theater concession stand price-setters.

I went to the movies the other day and noticed that a large drink is now $165. A small popcorn is $39.95. This is why I don’t feel guilty sneaking food into theaters. In fact, I think I could fire-bomb the concession stand on the way to my seat and not feel a thing.

Has anyone ever been caught sneaking-in food? Even my most half-hearted attempts have been successful. I am pretty sure I could balance an overflowing basket of candy on my head like an Indian woman bearing goods to the market and no one would notice. That being said, let me tell you one way NOT to smuggle food into the theater.

Disclaimer

This is a heartbreaking and frightening tale, and I will be using the word “testicles” at least twice. If this is too much for you, please leave now.

Still with me? Ok, Let’s continue.

Leaving the grocery store, on the way to the movie, I realized I was not wearing clothes that facilitated the hiding of candy. For the record, this was several years ago–I believe I was 21 (and obviously brilliant). I had a can of soda and a bag of Sour Patch Kids from one of those bulk-candy bins. I took the can of soda and dropped it in the candy bag and then slid the bag down inside the front of my pants. If anyone noticed, what could they say?

Pleased with myself, I strolled conspicuously past the ticket-taker and into the theater. I retrieved the bag of candy and the soda can and sat down to enjoy the movie.

It wasn’t long before I started to feel a strange itchy sensation in my crotch. I tried to ignore it and watch the movie, but the itching increased and turned into a burning that left me squirming and my forehead sweating. It felt like my testicles were on fire, and I had no clue why. What disease had I contracted from sitting in the movie theater?! Can you get the clap from sitting on an upholstered chair?!

Abandoning any pretense of decorum (much as I have done here by writing about my testicles) I reached down my pants to see if I had somehow caught fire. Surprisingly, instead of hot coals, I found what felt like beach sand. No, not beach sand…Sour Patch Kid acid-sugar! My underwear was full of citric acid!

Apparently the bag of candy had a hole in the corner which funneled Sour Patch death-sugar into my underwear. I had not imagined that sour-sugar could burn your flesh like a blowtorch. It can.

I was now at the point of crying like a baby, so I left my seat and tried not to sob too loudly as I made my way out of the theater. I hurried to the bathroom where I grabbed a couple handfulls of wet paper towels and gave myself a desperate sponge-bath in the stall. Now mostly sugar-free, but surely having lost several years of my life, I returned to my seat where I watched the rest of the movie rocking back and forth in the fetal position.

If any of you have ever thought, “Those sour candies sure look good! I bet they would be terrific on my testicles.”–I am begging you,don’t do it, IT IS HELL!

The other night at about midnight i was getting ready to go to bed and Adrienne was up talking with her sister when the doorbell rang.

Adrienne got to the door first, and there was no one there. I grew up calling that “ding-dong ditching” which looks remarkably stupid when you write it down (but sounds suave when you say it. At least when I say it, I don’t know about you dorks).

About 20 minutes later, ‘ding-dong’, no one there again. Adrienne went out the front door and I ran out the back. I already had my suspicion about who was ringing the bell. Our back yard abuts the side and back yard of the neighbors’ house (we live on a corner) where my 14-year-old friend lives. To maintain his anonymity I will call him Nate. Wait, that’s his real name. Let’s call him Nate Dog. Perfect.

Ever since Nate Dog found out I can dunk I became his buddy. Nate Dog sits by me at church and talks to me about basketball. Nate Dog is completely unimpressed by the fact that I played volleyball in college, Nate Dog would much rather hear about my rather pathetic high-school basketball career–pathetic except for the time that I played against Keith Van Horn and blocked his dunk (What’s up Keith?! I bet those millions of dollars and fame have done nothing to take away the pain of that memory).

As I ran out the backdoor I heard a noise in Nate Dog’s backyard. It looked like Nate wanted to play.

I went back inside and changed into black and gray clothing. I grabbed a large flashlight and headed back out. I crept to the side-corner of the backyard where I could lean against the fence and a tree and observe most of the front lawn and the sidewalk back to Nate Dog’s house. I then promptly fell asleep.

I woke up with a large spider on my nose and very calmly, yet forcefully and repeatedly, hit myself in the face with the flashlight. I don’t think I was spotted during the spider removal.

I decided to go to bed, but as I went inside I knew the doorbell would ring again right as I closed my eyes. Instead I made my way around to the front of the house, staying in the shadows. Years of elementary school army-man training came rushing back to me–I was undetectable.

Unseen, I slipped between a seven foot evergreen shrub and the bay window. Only six feet or so from the front door, and sitting in the shadows, I was in prime position to catch Nate, I mean Nate Dog, when he came back. And he would come back, for he is 14, and no 14 year-old could resist ringing the bell one more time.

I was tired, but after investing this much time in surveillance, I was not going inside until I caught the boy in the act. I ended up falling asleep in the bushes again.

I woke up to the sound of muffled voices and beeping walkie-talkies (for sure the dumbest word in the English Language). There were 5 boys on the other side of the street quietly making their way towards my house. Three of them ran behind a stand of Quaking Aspen on my neighbors lawn and established some sort of command post. One slowly walked by the house and then reported back on the radio (I have now abandoned the absurd “walkie-talkie” in favor of radio. I hope you understand).

Two of them sprinted across the street and hid behind a van on my driveway and then ran and ducked behind the trash can on the curb, while I tried not to laugh.

One of them, I believe it was Nate Dog, but it was dark, ran across the lawn. I contemplated tackling him, but decided to stay put. He veered wide and instead of going for the door he dove commando-style and landed hard on his stomach behind the Aspen on my lawn. I am still not sure the purpose of that move.

The last kid, I will refer to as Tom Green because he bore an uncanny resemblance to the actor (minus the facial hair), lurchingly, I think it was a failed attempt at ‘cautiously’, made his way to the front door.

It took a full three, very awkward, minutes for Tom Green to cross the lawn. He was now only six feet away from me.

‘Click’, the full power of my Maglite hit him square in the face. “What’s up super spy?” I said as casually as possible. He casually wet himself (I am not positive on this, but I feel fairly confident) and raised both hands in the air while making this face. I think he thought he was under arrest for a second.

Nate Dog and the other commandos abandoned their buddy without looking back. Tom Green made a gurgling noise and then ran blindly across the lawn. I was hoping he would run into the tree, but no such luck.

I tried to run after them but I was laughing so hard it took me a second to stand up. I managed to get to the corner just behind them, but they were gone. No doubt they had called in a helicopter to extract them.

I wiped the tears from my eyes and went inside. I turned on the sprinklers (or as I like to think of them, the perimeter defenses), hung up my Maglite and went to bed.