Javier is awesomely, creepily evil. But he wasn’t the most evil thing in the theater.

Every year I try to get ready for the Oscars by seeing as many of the nominated films and performances as I can. The Oscar noms aren’t released until February, but you can often anticipate what they’ll be, especially with the help of the Golden Globe and SAG nominations. Getting Oscar ready is my favorite thing about the early weeks of the new year. It’s what keeps my evenings overloaded and my Netflix queue overflowing. It’s what allows me to stop being so sad that Christmas is over. It’s what makes me get really annoyed that independent films almost never come to theaters in Corncob, PA!

My headstart began over the Christmas break when James, Kris, Jackie, and I went to see No Country For Old Men. The movie was fantastic, probably the best I’ve seen all year. Josh Brolin was awesome, Tommy Lee Jones was great, and Javier Bardem will be giving me nightmares for weeks. He clearly deserves an Oscar. Clearly.

But all this is beside the point. The point is, that it is evil, EVIL to talk in movie theaters. As my cousins and I sat in the darkened theater, enjoying the Coen Brothers’ latest offering, we heard the unwelcome sound of a voice behind us. I immediately recognized the sound of evil. A woman, on her cell phone, was saying, “Call me back. My number is 412-6…” I didn’t hear the rest of her number because I too busy hissing, “Shhhhhhhh!!!!” She took her voice down a notch, but she continued the call. She. Continued. The. Call.

Evil.

Upon later analysis, my cousins and I realized that she did not receive that call in the theater. She placed that call. If she had received it, she wouldn’t have had to give her number to person on the other end. So, not only did she place a call in a movie theater, she solicited a return call IN THE THEATER. These are the kinds of people we should have detained in Guantanamo Bay!

Jackie said that I should have sat there quietly, listened to her phone number, and then called her phone to tell her to shut it. I can just imagine it now. “Hello. You don’t know me. I’m calling from the left side of the theater, about five rows up, and I just want to tell you to shuuuut uuuuup! And that you belong in an internment camp in Cuba.”

That would have been classic, but my urge to shush has no patience. It seeks out noise and pounces on it. And until we have the good sense to lock up these evildoers somewhere where they can’t pose a threat to society, I’ll be here, shushing away.