Today I plan to eat a big tub of movie theater popcorn. I'm talking about the two thousand calorie leg-spreading bucket of shame. I'll wash it down with some perversely gigantic half gallon of soda lovingly prepared by a kid working minimum wage who doesn't know not to put his finger in the cup when he takes it from the stack. I'll be most of the way through the bucket by the time the opening credits are over. I'll wait for just the right moment to duck out and get the refill. It will be in that moment when the super hero laments his isolated childhood. My popcorn is more important than Cyclop's moping. On my way out of the theater I'll dump those little bits of kernels and dross to make room for a full scoop of salted crunchiness.
As I duck back in the theater I realize that I forgot to refill the drink. But there's a new action sequence on and I don't want to miss a single slow-motion kick to the face. I give the cup an inconsiderate rattle... ok - there's still a little less than half. That should do it.
As the final credits roll I slurp the melted-ice-watered-down-coke and waddle my way out of the theater. As I approach the concession stand, I ask for a refill on my soda and hope against hope that the kid asks me if I want a refill on the popcorn too. Hey, it's not my fault if he doesn't look for the magic marker "X" that his coworker put on the bottom signifying my 3rd refill attempt shame. Sometimes they do notice... and then they look at me, somehow feel sorry for me, and fill it up anyway with a "I'll just do it this one time for the guy" look on his face.