Guys, last week we saw the most amazing play about love in the age of Venmo and global warming. It completely changed our lives, and made us appreciate each other in a new, and deep way. Unfortunately, because the theater floods pretty rapidly at the end of it, the only way to see and survive the play is by getting box seats. I know they might be a little out of your price range, but we're not going to stop pestering you to see this show, so you better figure it out. Maybe take out a second mortgage, or just go into work tomorrow and make more money.
Again, the show does end with a legitimate flood as a means of commenting on rising sea levels. Admittedly, we were shocked when we noticed people who didn't spring for box seats were drowning below us. We felt guilty, sitting there eating our lobster, alive and dry behind our flood-proof glass like the royalty we had pinned to our vision board. But then we realized that our seats allowed us to make out incredible details like the way light broke in the scream bubbles of the people below, the thorough considerations of the laminated waivers they had to sign, and the intricacies of the scuba suits the performers put on as they made their escape.
Usually you go to the theater with a heavy mind, thinking about that week's unfortunate bombing or mass shooting. Our box seats took those fears right out of our minds, since we had armed security outside our door, and air infused with CTE wafting in from the cooling vents. We were able to immerse ourselves in the intricate performances, and to feel the nuances of the playwright's dialogue about barre workouts and being unhappy in a pr job reverberate within us. Plus, when some of the stronger seat-sitters managed to get up to our window to try and smash the glass, we were able to sit comfortably knowing that they were too weak to harsh our buzz by actually breaking in. If we hadn't sprung for the box, we could've been like the people outside, begging for help and cursing us in their death.
Plus, the sound is so incredible. We were able to hear every click of a text message letter, every unclasping of a bra or unvelcroing of Air Jordan boxers. We could hear the soft sighs of kissing, and the uproarious laughter when a joke landed. If we had sat with everyone else, we would have only heard coughing, or the sound of a person over forty unwrapping candy or an edible. When the theater began filling with water, we could hear not only everyone trying to flee in terror, but the echoing of the water behind walls. It was like we were in Jurassic Park, but had too much money to be eaten by a T. Rex! We were even able to make out the apologies and declarations of “We must get to the chopper!” uttered by the actors as they strapped on their suits. Truly, it was worth every one of the 100,000 pennies we spent.
Best of all, we made friends! If you don't go with a buddy or a partner, it's so easy to sit there, checked out on your phone, waiting for the production to start. Being above it all, there were only three other boxes up there, so it felt like we were part of an elite club. When the panic began, the couple across from us, who had dorkily put on the provided gold-encrusted robes and slippers like we had, called over to us on the intercom to tell us how cute we looked. When we sheepishly admitted we were new to box life, they were so kind and helpful in telling us how to access the emergency escape pod in our section. Long story short, we're having dinner next week.
Again, we know not everyone makes the salary of an astronaut and corporate lawyer. We know you sure don't. Still, we insist you see this play. It'll be the only thing we talk about until Coachella unveils its VIP tiers.